


Courage

by kakikaeru



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: But Also What Is Canon?, Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series Pre-Movie, because that's what we're all here for right?, in which the world of figure skaing is true to life, judging scandal, non-consensual advances, read with care please!, save an athlete hug a russian, the quad jump arms race, time for some international sports politics, underage unwanted overtures, you gon' learn, yuri plisetsky and the no good very bad simply awful season
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-21 09:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 82,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14282352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakikaeru/pseuds/kakikaeru
Summary: They were lucky, but luck was only an infinitesimal portion of what it took to win; it took talent and determination and a willingness to grind, daily and relentlessly, and above that it took love, love that bore them up and made them stronger, made them dizzy with lightness and so brave, love that ultimately made them a little reckless.It probably started with the lip balm. But for Victor it had started over a year before, when Katsuki Yuuri had tangoed into his life and straight into his dreams; and for Yuuri it could have been argued that it either started at the age of twelve or somewhere on the ice of the Kyushu Block Competition – so neither of them could be faulted for not seeing it sneak up on them._______________________________________The judging scandal heard across the ages.





	1. Champions Only

It probably started with the lip balm.

It was a foolish question to begin with, completely amateur for a press conference – "Mr. Nikiforov, what is your favourite flavour?" – but Victor had just come off the ice ten minutes before, rough and exhausted from defending a National title with only three sparse weeks of practice, and he had been too long outside of Russia, and was not himself.

"Milk Hero Salve," he said, the exact brand of lip balm the NHK had captured Yuuri applying to his lips rink-side before his short program the day before.

Victor had smiled his nine-time National Champion smile and fielded the remaining questions with his usual tact and charm, and it was barely noticeable that he was trying to hurry the proceedings along so he could get back to his hotel and coach his fiancé through his free skate over the phone.

"Milk Hero Salve, huh?" Yuuri will ask later, quiet in his hotel room across the world, the buoyancy of his own reclaimed National title having sunk into a pleasant weight, bliss and distance allowing him to tease.

"It was honestly such a surprising question," Victor admitted, "that of course I thought of you, zolotse moya."

Yuuri will make a soft noise in his throat, and the next day he will check out of his Hokkaido hotel and board a plane to St. Petersburg. By the time he checks his email, sprawled in the centre of their new bed with damp hair and sporting a pair of Victor's flannel pyjamas, there will be an endorsement offer from Milk Cosmetics in his inbox. Yuuri will accept because the amounts involved are enough to run the Onsen indefinitely. It will lead to a high-fashion ad featuring him, dewy and doused in lilac glitter, gazing half-lidded over his bare shoulder with the words "Ice Hero" scrawled beneath his face. It will make it into the September issue of Vogue and kick-start Yuuri's modestly successful off-season modelling career. It will be a brief, bright spot for Victor, in an otherwise painful August, when he opens his subscription to find Yuuri looking through his eyelashes at him, and his lips will quirk slightly up at the corners when he tears it loose and secures it to the front of the refrigerator with magnets made out of instagram selfies of him and Yuuri together.

Such was the power of media in their lives, both figures on the ice and in the public eye; and they were probably lucky no one but die-hard fans in Russia would care to watch a grainy live-feed of All Japan, care to pause the video and enclose the little white pot in Yuuri's hand in a red circle; blow the image up until it was impossible to know what it was a picture of, let alone what brand of lip balm it was. They were lucky like they had been at the Cup of China, when every angle of their on-ice embrace conveniently featured Victor's arm in front of their faces. Lucky that their sport was eccentric enough, and old-fashioned enough, that two men skating an ice dance together was not a novelty but just a delightful turn of events.

They were lucky, but luck was only an infinitesimal portion of what it took to win; it took talent and determination and a willingness to grind, daily and relentlessly, and above that it took _love_ , love that bore them up and made them stronger, made them dizzy with lightness and so brave, love that ultimately made them a little reckless.

It probably started with the lip balm. But for Victor it had started over a year before, when Katsuki Yuuri had tangoed into his life and straight into his dreams; and for Yuuri it could have been argued that it either started at the age of twelve or somewhere on the ice of the Kyushu Block Competition – so neither of them could be faulted for not seeing it sneak up on them.

 

* * *

 

The cold knocked Yuuri over in less than twenty minutes. He was used to the controlled cold of the rink, the cool damp of Kyushu, and he thought he had grown to accept the bite of winter in Detroit, but nothing at all could have ever prepared him for the snarling reality of St. Petersburg, which was just as cold as Michigan and a hundred times sharper; it cracked the skin of his hands, fogged his glasses, and made him feel like he was breathing through tubes. It was almost unbearable, but he had Victor. Victor who immediately wrapped him into a €1,500 parka in the elevator to the airport parking garage, purchased online from Norway and in Yuuri's preferred shade of blue. Victor who had already laid out his warmest pyjamas before leaving for the airport, who drew Yuuri a bath in the giant bathtub and massaged shea butter into his skin afterwards. Victor who made him slightly lumpy ginger porridge and too-salty miso soup that first morning, and tried, on top of all the other things going on in his life, to make sure Yuuri felt comfortable and at home.

So Yuuri tried too; he had always been more willing to try for Victor than for anyone else. He wore his parka like armor against the cold, and he used his black Mizuno athletic wear in much the same way at Yubileyny Sport Club; a raven amongst doves. He put in his headphones, worked through his choreography, and ignored the way everyone but Yurio's blank-faced stare glided right over him. Yuuri was no stranger to being the odd one out, and the skaters at SDUSHOR were his competitors. It was a different coaching dynamic than he and Victor were used to, there was less giggling ice dancing and more positive reinforcement from the boards. But Yuuri didn't need Victor to track Eros next to him anymore. Yuuri was polished, polished and _hungry_ , and gunning for the 4CC and World's beyond. Yuuri told himself he was the Grand Prix Final Silver Medalist, Japanese National Champion, Free Skate World Record _holder_ ; and it was better for Victor to save the majority of his skating time for his own practice.

Yuuri didn't notice he was letting the changes – a new rink, a new country, a new and yet so familiar Victor – wear him down until after a particularly gruelling on-ice session. The weather outside was harsh with gathering black clouds, and Yuuri hadn't slept well the night before. He'd failed to land a quad flip on his last three attempts, and he knew it was because he was tired, but it didn't make the failure burn any less. He stepped off the ice and happened to look back at Victor, who still had his own practice with Yakov to work through, and was staring at him with conflicted longing. It was clear he wanted to put his arm around Yuuri the way he had after a long day at Ice Castle Hasetsu, kiss the top of his head and tell him the next day would go better, but of course he couldn't, and Yuuri didn't want to be coddled in front of Yurio, in front of Georgi or Yakov, but it didn't make it easier.

Yuuri managed to get his skates off, complete his cool down stretches, and jog all the way home through the sharply falling snow before he couldn't hold it in anymore, and collapsed, frozen and gasping, onto the heated floor of their entryway to sob. Makkachin came out of the bedroom and whined, and when Yuuri didn't uncurl or acknowledge her, she laid down beside him, pressed up against his back, and set her snout very gently over the side of his neck to wait him out. It made Yuuri cry harder, until his eyes were burning and his throat was raw; his second cry in Russia and naturally the harshest one yet. It left him hollowed out and exhausted and so, so cold. He laid boneless on the floor and didn't even register the noise of Victor's key in the door.

"Yuuri? Yuuri!"

Something rolled him over and then he was staring blearily up at Victor, who's sea-blue eyes were wide in panic and concern.

" _Sweetheart_ ," he gasped. "What-"

"I'm cold," Yuuri croaked, resigned and weary like he always was after his anxiety laid him out. "It's so cold, Victor…"

It wasn't what was really wrong, but it was close enough. Victor unzipped the collar of Yuuri's parka and brushed back the edge of his wool cap to check for fever. Apparently satisfied, he trailed his fingers along Yuuri's cheek and smiled down at him, soft and coaxing.

"Let's have dinner, yes? And then I will take you somewhere nice."

 

Somewhere nice turned out to be a very squat and unassuming building down a quiet backstreet, which Yuuri eyed skeptically from the passenger seat of Victor's car as they drove into its underground parking. Victor wore a hat and his sunglasses even though it was well past dark and tugged Yuuri along behind him by the sleeve of his jacket. He spoke low to the woman at the front desk and paid in cash, coming away with two keys and leading Yuuri down the hallway with a shy smile into a locker room.

"Are we going to skate?" Yuuri asked, confused.

"No," Victor said simply. He winked at Yuuri over his shoulder and started taking his clothes off.

Thirty minutes later, Yuuri was sprawled naked on his back on a towel and a cedar bench, blinking through a haze of steam and his own nearsightedness up at Victor, sitting perched next to him with a towel around his waist. Yuuri hoped he looked half as attractive as Victor somehow did in a little felt cap. He must have been smiling despite his internal fashion crisis, because Victor smiled back.

"Do you feel better?"

He had definitely been smiling; Yuuri felt it stretch wide, pulled loose by the comfortable heat seeping into his skin and the second, more thrilling one that shot down his spine.

"I could kiss you," he sighed happily.

"You can," Victor said softly. "It's okay here."

It was probably the delicate emotional balance in Victor's eyes: how he could look appreciative and hopeful and a little sad all at once, coupled with the fierce tenderness Yuuri felt whenever he was confronted with a reminder that Victor had been the lonelier of the two of them. Yuuri sat up and cupped the side of Victor's face with his hand, stroking the pad of his thumb lightly beneath Victor's right eye, where the skin was paper-thin and faintly blue. He hadn't really thought about it, but their move to Russia was maybe weighing heavy on Victor too.

Before they'd met each other, Yuuri could count the number of men he'd been with on one hand, and Victor on one finger. Before they'd met, Yuuri had never considered himself particularly experienced. His first kiss had been a boy in his class on the last day of school; Yuuri remembered the giddy feeling of having graduated top of his class in English and knowing he was _going_ , going to America that land of dreams, how it folded over on itself in the wake of Nakamura-kun's confession behind the convenience store and the exciting but unwanted press of his lips. Nakamura had looked sad after and Yuuri had felt for days like the kiss was branded into him, a keepsake on the plane ride to the new stage of his life. At the same time, Victor was having his heart broken by Artem, his first and only boyfriend, a pain he would channel into two record-breaking programs in the upcoming season. Victor would win every gold there was that year, and then just never stop winning them.

In his first year abroad, Yuuri would meet James, the eldest son of the family Yuuri billeted with, when he came home from college for Thanksgiving. It took all of four seconds for them to recognize each other, and when James went out in the evening to meet with some local friends, he invited Yuuri along. He took Yuuri to a club called Gigi's and gasped in absolute delight when – loosened up by three shots taken in rapid succession before going to the club – Yuuri annihilated the dance floor. James acquired a summer job for himself driving the zamboni at Yuuri's rink, and they spent a lot of time kissing in the locker room, cuddling under James' parents' noses, and sneaking into each other's rooms at night. The demands on Yuuri's time as an amateur athlete and the distance of their colleges had parted them amicably; they still kept in touch through email and social media, and Yuuri was good friends with James' husband Paul, liking all their selfies on instagram.

After James there had been a few flings, never more than three months long and always interrupted by his training schedule, and Yuuri put that on hold halfway through his third year in Detroit, because by then Phichit had arrived, and Phichit had needed him. Yuuri shouldered the responsibilities of an older brother easily and naturally, without being asked. He picked Phichit up from his classes and made sure he ate a protein bar before practice, just like Mari had done for him growing up. He learned how to make Tom Kha Kai and watched _The King and the Skater_ hundreds of times, singing along with a thick Kyushu accent so Phichit would laugh, forget he was homesick, and correct his pronunciation. When he found out the family Phichit was staying with wouldn't allow him to keep hamsters, Yuuri secured permission from the JSF – who paid his rent – to move Phichit into his own sacred and tiny closet of an apartment. He took Phichit to Drag Night at Gigi's and the two of them upstaged a very disgruntled set of queens by executing perfectly in sync death drops in the middle of their set.

So while Yuuri doesn't always believe it, he knows he is capable of allowing himself to be loved, and capable of loving in return. He's had twenty odd years of being bolstered by his family, and five of doing it on his own. It's just that the one year when everything went pear-shaped he'd needed Victor's help to scrape himself back together, to push himself further, to understand and remember the love around him. He'd needed Victor to remember that relationships are about give _and_ take, and what Yuuri had with Victor was the only truly enduring relationship Yuuri had ever been in. He knew, looking at Victor through the steam of the sauna, that if he was not careful with Victor's heart it could easily slip into a despair so weighty Victor wouldn't even feel it crush him. St. Petersburg was not Hasetsu, where they had been insulated by the twin factors of the lower popularity of their sport and the pride of Yuuri's hometown in him, where the fishermen and shop owners closed rank and let them build a romance – fragile, tentative, and piece by piece – in the relative open.

Yuuri was not physically demonstrative by nature, and even by his own cultural standards he was incredibly reserved. His time in America and his proximity to Victor had loosened that somewhat, but Yuuri still preferred to keep his personal life to himself. It was different from Hasetsu, but he appreciated Victor's professional attitude on the ice at Yubileyny and he got a secret thrill when, after a long day at the rink, he tackled Victor behind their closed apartment door. And they _were_ alone now, the only two people in the sauna, and he knew Victor was feeling starved for all the little touches that had become second nature to them in Japan.

"I'd like to," Yuuri admitted softly, leaning in. "Can I?"

Victor's only response was to look through his eyelashes, though he did make a quiet sound at the back of his throat when Yuuri brushed their lips together. The kisses were gentle, and Yuuri placed his palm over Victor's heart, the protective gesture he had come to associate with the awe and fear he had over Victor trusting him with it. _Mine_ , it said, his to treasure and his responsibility to care for.

They kissed until Yuuri felt too light-headed, and Victor took him gently by the wrist and led him out of the sauna where the air was mercifully cooler and lighter. He planted light kisses all along Yuuri's cheeks, and Yuuri loved him, would do anything for him, until Victor wrapped his arms around Yuuri's waist and tumbled them both into a deep pool of water so cold it had likely been pumped directly from the harbour. Yuuri shrieked in betrayal going in and sputtered incoherently coming out, and only forgave Victor for his cruelty grudgingly, once he was wrapped in a fluffy towel and provided hot tea and a small fruit salad.

"…who ever heard of a _cold_ onsen," he muttered petulantly in Japanese, letting Victor feed him a grape, and trying not to smile at the sound of Victor's responding laugh.

"Do you want to go back into the steam, zolotse?"

Yuuri was aware his eyes probably lit up like a character from a shoujo manga. "Please?" he begged.

"Of course!" Victor sang, setting his pointer finger to his lips and winking. "It's time to hit you with branches, now!"

"WHAT?"

 

The next day was a rest day for them, but Victor still got up early and shuffled to the kitchen to make genmaicha before Yuuri's 8am alarm. He turned on the samovar and prepared tea concentrate for himself, then stood in the morning sunlight drinking a small glass of juice, basking in the residual comfort of sleep and the transferred smell of Yuuri on his skin. It was always strongest after Yuuri took it upon himself to take Victor apart, gently wanton and careful, so overwhelmingly lovely that it surprised Victor every time. The enforced intimacy of their apartment had made them wildly possessive at home, and Victor liked that, loved Yuuri in charge and teasing, but last night had been tender and slow.

Victor felt the end of his nose heat as he poured hot water into the little blue teapot he had bought specifically for Yuuri's use. Yuuri could get trapped in his own head, but when it counted, he'd always been able to see right into Victor, to read the things that Victor himself didn't even know were there. He'd known Victor had unfinished business with the ice and known Victor would suppress and ignore it unless Yuuri himself did something drastic about it. And last night, he'd known instinctively that Victor needed to be held, even though Yuuri himself was feeling rough and worn down. It shouldn't surprise him, but Victor will always marvel at Yuuri's quiet strength, a scaffold firm enough for Victor to hang his own insecurities on.

The sound of their bedroom door opening spurred Victor into motion; he poured the hot water into the sink, spooning a blend of green tea and toasted rice into the now warmed teapot the way Yuuri's Okasan had taught him. He glanced at the clock on the stove as he filled the teapot once again with water from the samovar and set the lid on to steep.

"You're awake early, solnyshko."

The corners of Yuuri's mouth quirked up, but it was early and he was brandishing Victor's phone, so he didn't smile.

"Someone is trying to call you," he said in his quietly rough morning voice, the one that made the skin of Victor's chest flush. Yuuri and his attractively tousled bedhead had eyes for the blue teapot only, however, so Victor took a mug out of the cupboard and slid both along the counter towards him in exchange for his phone.

It was not a rest day for the rest of the skaters at SDUSHOR; most of them started their ice time at 7am sharp, and Yakov typically arrived at the rink at 5:30 to turn on the samovar in his office and do a bit of paperwork before he went out to get himself a vatrushka and the morning paper.

Victor reached into the cupboard for his own mug and glanced down at his phone, where he had three missed call notifications from Yakov, and a cryptically dramatic text from Yurio.

_what have you done moron_

Victor clicked that one first, and before he could type anything a photo of the top corner of the newspaper arrived underneath it that made Victor go cold and furious all at once.

"Victor?"

Yuuri was looking at him over the rim of his mug, over the tops of his glasses where the steam had fogged them up. "What's wrong?"

 

In the end, it blew over without Yuuri ever knowing. He can't read much cyrillic, and the exclusive photos are too blurry to make anyone out in them. It was the press once again trying to bait and sensationalize the glamourous life of their national hero, and Victor did what he always did, said nothing, either way, while he quietly sued the paper and the banya for libel. Only this time was different, because the pictures were not actually fabricated, and Victor had Yuuri's privacy to protect. Help came to him from two unlikely sources.

 

First, Yuuri arrived home from weight training to find Mila and Victor drinking tea out of saucers, a practice Victor had yet to acclimatize Yuuri to. This did not faze him nearly as much as Mila abruptly standing up.

"I like you Katsuki Toshiyaevich," she declared, while Yuuri blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights. "We should become friends!"

Victor held his breath for a moment, but after a few beats of slightly confused silence, Yuuri bowed in what Victor knew to be everyday courtesy for a Japanese person but was taken as the height of chivalry by Mila.

"Please call me Yuuri," he told her, straightening up with a shy smile. Mila promptly flushed red and Victor noted that another person had fallen hapless victim to the charms of his fiancé.

" _Yuuri_!" she squealed. "We are going to have so much fun!"

Fun meant meeting for tea and shopping on their off days, going to movies and out dancing. Mila folded Yuuri effortlessly into her small circle of friends, who took him sightseeing while Victor was at practice and helped Yuuri with his Russian. It meant Yuuri and Mila bumping their shoulders together at SDUSHOR while they were lacing up their skates and laughing at each other, a group chat of people Victor didn't know on Yuuri's phone. It meant that Yuuri looked a little less fragile – for all his reserve, Yuuri was an incredibly social person, and it was good for him to have friends. It meant Victor came home from the rink to an impromptu dinner party after Alexei and Kseniya took Yuuri grocery shopping. He took his coat off and Yuuri came out of the kitchen and handed him a small glass of vodka with a wink.

"Is this okay?" he whispered. "Mila and Raisa are coming too – they're bringing more vodka…"

"It's more than okay!" Victor kissed the top of Yuuri's head. "I'm always happy to spend time with your friends."

Yuuri beamed at him, and Victor admitted to himself that it was better for them not to be so completely wrapped up in each other, that Yuuri needed more, and Victor was okay with giving him away a little, of sharing. Makka bounded up to them and Yuuri bent down to coo at her and scratch her ears.

"Go introduce yourself, Victor, they're dying to meet you."

 

Second, Yuuri caused a sensation in the local press when he arrived with Lilia Baranovskaya on his arm at the Mikhailovsky's annual Orthodox production of _The Nutcracker_ , his hair gelled back and wearing his contacts, for he had insisted, adorably panicked in Victor's opinion, that since the Madame was taking him he needed to look nice. He looked _stunning_.

Yuuri was a study in contrasts – somehow appearing soft and sharp at separate turns, like something almost obtainable but just out of reach – and it was more than apparent at the theatre that night. The bespoke three-piece suit Victor bought him in Barcelona in fashionable emerald green set off the blue-blackness of his hair, the faintly golden cast of his skin. The photos printed in the society section of the newspapers the next day don't do justice to the pale blue of his shirt or the handmade Italian tie Victor gave him for Christmas, but the pictures are picked up by the associated press before the intermission and the high-definition images of Yuuri break the internet.

The twitter notifications nearly make Victor regret letting Yuuri go without him; it is slow torture to scroll through photo after photo of his fiancé – suavely exiting a limousine in his overcoat, politely escorting Lilia up the inner staircase _in that suit_ , peeking through opera glasses as he leaned over the edge of the balcony of all things – each one captioned with open desire and inappropriate vegetable emojis. But then Yuuri came home and closed their door, kissed him with lips made soft by Victor's favourite flavour, whispered "Oh Vitya, it was _wonderful_ ," breathlessly to him with sparkling eyes, and let Victor slowly remove his suit, and Victor found he had very little to be jealous of.

The next day Yuuri smiled shyly and showed Victor the Whatsapp group he shared with his American friends, an endless scroll of messages screaming about his St. Petersburg society debut until finally James settled the debate over who could exclaim the most by providing a string of three crying faces, three heart-eyed cats, a thumbs up, an okay, a champagne bottle, the red one hundred, and, inexplicably, a school bus. Paul translated thusly:

_You look beautiful Yuuri! Russia clearly agrees with you._

Underneath, James added a winking face and wrote: _Good luck at the 4CC! We can't wait to see you at Worlds!_

 

* * *

 

Victor went alone to the European Championships, because he didn't want Yuuri to lose an entire week of practice time so close to Four Continents. Bratislava was a four hour flight from St. Petersburg, but only a one hour time difference, which allowed them to keep a near constant stream of iMessages. Victor sent Yuuri photographs of the hilltop castle and selfies with Christophe, and Yuuri responded with pictures of Makka and videos of him skating alone on the wide expanse of the largest ice pad at Yubileyny.

Before Victor skated out for his short, Yuuri sent him a single text, not good luck but _Show me the skating you love best_. Commentators noted Victor's flushed face when he took the ice, but it was quickly put aside in the wake of his emotive and technically flawless performance. Victor earned his highest PCS ever for a short program, and an eager reporter from the BBC asked him if perhaps the time working with Katsuki Yuuri had paid off for him as well.

Victor looked dead into the camera, through which he knew Yuuri would be watching him, curled up on their couch with Makka at home.

"Of course," he nodded. "Skater Katsuki of Japan is beautiful on the ice. His skating is my favorite."

His phone buzzed almost immediately in his pocket, and the camera captured the way Victor lowered his eyelashes, the way the tip of his nose turned pink, and his bashful smile.

"Please excuse me," he said, and walked down the corridor, deeper into the bowels of the arena where the reporters couldn't penetrate. Victor took his phone out of his jacket.

 _Always inspiring me_ , Yuuri wrote, and Victor wanted to call him, hear his voice, see his face, hold him. They'd been physically separated for four days and it was worse than Nationals, because Victor had had his duties as Yuuri's coach to distract him then. It'd been awhile since he'd had to focus only on himself in a competition, and he found it lonely.

He was just opening FaceTime when his phone rang with an incoming skype call.

Just as Victor had pictured, Yuuri was snuggled up in the living room with Makkachin across his lap, wearing the thin sweatpants he wore for barre practice and one of Victor's sweaters. The sight of Yuuri comfortably at home against the familiar backdrop of his bookcases shook something loose in Victor, and his heart sped up.

Yuuri's cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling and damp behind his glasses. "Victor," he said, and his smile was the most beautiful thing Victor had ever seen. "Victor, you were _incredible_ …"

There were several true things Victor could have said, _Thank you_ or _I skated for you_ or _You're the one who inspires me_ , but something else crawled forwards along his tongue before he could filter it.

"I miss you," he blurted, startling himself with how honest it was. He felt his face heat and he pressed his lips together.

But Yuuri nodded, his face becoming serious. "I miss you too," he admitted. A tiny smile quirked the edges of his lips. "Watching you perform on TV isn't really enough anymore."

"Yuuuuuuri," he groaned, but Victor was smiling, "I'm glad not all my fans are as greedy as you are…"

"They might be," Yuuri sniffed, suddenly very interested in fiddling with the compression bandage around the top of his left foot. "But I'm the only one who gets to share a hotel room with you in Taiwan."

"Yuuri!"

Victor was laughing now, feeling lighter, more himself. He watched Yuuri's cheeks catch fire, and Victor couldn't see the tips of Yuuri's ears through his hair, but knew they would be bright red too. A shy laugh cracked Yuuri's lips into another beautiful smile.

"Just three days, and then we'll see each other," he promised. "Don't forget to give Mila the apartment keys."

"I didn't, she has them. Oh, but can you bring my cufflinks? Those I did forget…"

"Mm, you left them on the dresser. I put them in my suitcase already. Do you need anything else?"

"Just you."

Yuuri's eyes went a little dark, but then something beyond the laptop caught his attention, and he glanced up, adjusting his glasses.

"Yurio's up after this; you promised him you'd watch."

Victor didn't want to hang up, but he smiled bravely. "You should get to bed soon, your coach will be mad if he finds out you're breaking curfew."

Yuuri rolled his eyes. "Say goodnight to Papa, Makka," he told the dog in Russian, and her ears perked up. She barked and licked his face, and Victor laughed.

"No that's your Otousan," Victor chided her in Japanese, and Makkachin at last turned towards the screen and barked at him too.

Yuuri hugged his arms around the dog. "Goodnight Vitya!" he chorused, and Victor had just enough time to grab a screen shot before Yuuri reached forward to hang up. Victor smiled to himself while he set it as his phone background, and went to watch Yurio try to beat him.

 

When Victor checked his phone the next day after morning practice, there was a photo waiting for him. Sunlight was pouring into their bedroom over Yuuri's shoulder, and he appeared to be wearing nothing except the bed sheet covering him from the hips down. He was smiling half into his pillow, cheeks pink, hair tousled and glasses absent, and Victor was willing to accept Yuuri had just woken up, rolled over, and snapped the picture, even though he knew getting Yuuri to sleep in anything less than two layers of clothing was nothing short of a miracle. But staged or not, Yuuri had taken it for _him_.

 _I can't wait to kiss your gold medal_ , he'd added underneath.

"You scandalous tease," Victor breathed, nearly giddy. It was the best pre-competition motivation he'd ever received.

Later that night Victor nearly broke Yuuri's world record, and he politely declined everyone's offer of celebratory drinks in favor of going back to his hotel room, showering, and then sprawling beside the bed on the plushly carpeted floor of his hotel room, one leg strategically placed for modesty and wearing nothing but his gold medal. Yuuri would be sleeping now, but he'd see the photo in the morning.

Victor went to bed feeling strangely light. He was pleased with the way he'd skated and looking forward to the gala tomorrow, and he only had to make a cursory appearance at the sponsor's dinner, since he was leaving early the following morning to fly to Taiwan. It was possibly the most fun he'd had at a competition in a very long time. When he woke up there was a single text from Yuuri, the lipstick kiss emoji, and _see you in Taipei_.

 

At Taoyuan Airport, Yuuri dragged himself through the security gate on leaden feet and fell into Victor. His eyes were glazed behind his glasses; the rest of his face hidden by the white medical mask he wore when he travelled, and for Victor, he was a sight for sore eyes. Victor held Yuuri's dead weight against his chest and sighed happily into his hair, slightly oily from spending fifteen and a half hours in transit via Moscow and Beijing.

"Take this thing off so I can kiss you," Victor whispered, and Yuuri complied by yanking the mask down under his chin, surging up onto the balls of his feet, and wrapping his arms around Victor's neck with more strength than someone so clearly jetlagged ought to possess. Yuuri kissed the breath right out of him, and when they broke apart there was a thunderous look in his dark eyes.

"We are _never_ separating for competitions again," he hissed.

"I'll inform the ISU," Victor said solemnly, because it was better not to argue with Yuuri when he was tired, and Victor happened to agree with him. He cupped Yuuri's face in his hands and kissed him sweetly. "Let's get your luggage, yes? Our hotel room has a tub!"

Yuuri made an almost indecent noise. He circled Victor's waist with his arms and buried his face in Victor's chest. "Please take care of me," he sobbed.

Victor shifted them around so Yuuri's hands clasped across his stomach, and let Yuuri hide his face between his shoulder blades as he started shuffling them towards the baggage claim.

"You said the same thing at Pulkovo," he reminded Yuuri gently. "How many airports are you going to propose to me in?"

"All of them," Yuuri rumbled against his back. "As many as it takes."

 

They had sixteen days in Taipei before the 4CC started, the first ten of which they spent practicing at the venue. When it closed to prepare for the championships, they shifted to a smaller local rink, but Victor's gamble at bringing Yuuri early paid off. Yuuri liked routine, and for sixteen days he had it, getting up early and working out in the hotel gym with Victor before they skated. At open practice two days before the competition he looked comfortable and loose, his programs already tracked to the ice and the location of the judges panel. Even drawing an early spot for the short didn't faze him, he shrugged and told Victor the ice would be in better shape for him to land his flip.

Standing rink-side, Victor draped Yuuri's JSF jacket over his arm and took his skate guards. He waited for Yuuri to blow his nose and have a drink of water, and then he took hold of Yuuri's right hand and kissed the ring there. Yuuri leaned in so they could hug over the boards. "Watch me, Vitya," he whispered, before pressing a quick, hidden kiss into the sensitive spot under Victor's ear. Heat and tightness shot through Victor's chest, and did not dissipate as Yuuri skated backwards, only turning to look away from Victor when he acknowledged the audience and the judges. He set himself in his starting position and kissed his ring, and Victor did the same to his own, his heart hammering in his ribs.

The moment before the music started was always the hardest for Victor. It was like standing on a precipice of anticipation, and when the music began you had no choice but to fling yourself over and hope whatever was waiting for you at the bottom was soft. As a skater he'd taught himself to overcome the feeling through endless practice and a proven track record of perfection, but as a coach he had nothing to dampen the blow. It was all Yuuri now, Yuuri and Victor's belief in him.

The guitars kicked up and Yuuri moved, fluid and beautiful, assured. He stomped his foot out and _winked_ at Victor, a mischievous smile full of promises tugging at his lips. The audience shrieked but it didn't startle Yuuri, and Victor felt like he was melting; he was certainly regretting the three piece suit he wore under his trench coat. But Victor was also a consummate professional, despite the way his pulse was thudding against his necktie, he watched Yuuri with a discerning eye. There was little to critique; at the GPF Yuuri had skated Eros with a determined kind of hunger, but here, now, his movements were confident, sensual. It reminded Victor of a darkly beautiful Japanese man, who'd dipped him on the dance floor of the Sochi GPF Banquet and told Victor he had a sexy laugh.

Yuuri launched himself into his quad flip and Victor jumped with him, and as soon as Victor's feet hit the floor, he _knew_.

"Yes!" Victor shouted. He slammed his fists down on the top of the boards, elated. Yuuri's flip was beautiful and crisp, he could now snap himself from four rotations into his landing even more sharply than Victor. It was _their_ jump now, and it was the jewel in Yuuri's perfectly executed program, the only thing he could have improved upon from his skate at the GPF, and of _course_ he had done it.

Victor will later watch the NHK stream of Yuuri's short program and have to lower the speaker volume because of the excited shouting by Mooroka-san. The video cut out after the announcement of Yuuri's score, as Yuuri turned on the bench in the kiss and cry in time to brace himself from falling under the weight of Victor's ecstatic embrace. Yuuri earned a personal best, in first by a margin of five points over JJ at the end of the night. Before he left the ice for his cool down he'd clasped hands with Phichit, on his way out to skate, and the two had shared a brief nod, a motivation that had pushed Phichit to upgrade a toe loop into a second quad, and allowed him to score enough for third.

 

Back at the hotel, perched on the side of the tub in his underwear and a t-shirt, Yuuri received a typically backwards congratulations message from Yurio.

_Beka will crush you tomorrow, katsudon_

_Go to bed,_ shot back Victor, and then turned off the notifications for WhatsApp on both their phones. He set them one on top of the other on the bathroom counter, Yuuri's blue poodle case hidden by the pink of his Stammi Vincino costume, so Yuuri wouldn't be able to tell which phone was vibrating with notifications. Yurio would no doubt switch to iMessage next.

"How are we doing?" Victor asked sweetly, setting his hands on Yuuri's shoulders and leaning over him.

Yuuri wiggled his toes in the water, fizzing with epsom salts. "No stings," he said with a wry smile.

"Ah, good," Victor nodded, massaging his thumbs into Yuuri's neck. Yuuri sighed and leaned into the touch. "Is your back still bothering you?" Victor asked softly.

"Mm, but not as much." Yuuri lifted his arms up. "Can you help me take the tape off? I shouldn't sleep with it on."

Victor took hold of the collar of Yuuri's t-shirt and pulled it off over his head, hung it on the back of the door, and knelt beside the tub. There was thick, clear tape on the right side of Yuuri's back, starting at the base of his ribs. He'd had a slight twinge in the muscle there and the physio-therapist at the arena had taped it to give him a bit more support. Yuuri leaned forward and braced his hands against the tile, and Victor teased the edge of the tape up with a fingernail.

"Ready?" he asked, and before Yuuri could answer, Victor ripped it off in one abrupt jerk.

"Ahhh _not_ ready!" Yuuri yelled. He said something in Kyushu Japanese that Victor thought sounded suspiciously like a curse word, but primly chose to ignore.

As an apology Victor dampened a washcloth with cold water in the sink and pressed it to the red mark on Yuuri's back. He stroked the fingers of his other hand over Yuuri's ribs, sliding his hand under Yuuri's arm to pull him a bit closer and planting a few careful kisses on his spine.

"Vitya," Yuuri said quietly, but his voice was more weighty than remonstrative.

"Mm?" Victor kissed the edge of Yuuri's shoulder blade.

"I'm skating tomorrow..."

Victor smiled against the nape of Yuuri's neck. "But I'm not."

Yuuri's fingers slid between Victor's on his chest, and he tilted his chin back, a clear indication that he wanted Victor to kiss behind his ear.

"Then why," he asked breathlessly, "are you wearing so many clothes?"

 

When Yuuri came off the ice after the podium ceremony, he lifted his gold medal up by the ribbon and held it out triumphantly for Victor to kiss. At the last second Victor ducked around it and cupped Yuuri's chin, and the forty-five second video – of Victor planting a kiss on Yuuri's cheek, of Yuuri clutching Victor's tie to keep him there, of Victor threading one hand into Yuuri's gelled hair as he pulled him closer and of Yuuri throwing his arm around Victor and blocking the view of the camera with his flowers – quickly went viral.

 

From Taipei, they travelled to Tokyo, and they spent a week there while Yuuri did interviews with the NHK and his photo shoot for Milk. Yuuri made arrangements for their costumes to be dry cleaned and picked up his new pair of boots, held for him at the JSF office. They were exactly like his old ones, but they were for next season, an Olympic year, and so the outside heels were emblazoned with the flag of Japan. Yuuri went out for a jog around the hotel and came back to find Victor sitting on the bed, their small tool kit open and several screwdriver bits scattered around him, affixing Yuuri's custom blades to them.

"Ahhh, I like to get them punched out first," Yuuri said nervously, because Victor knew Yuuri was superstitious about his skates.

"It's just for the photo!" Victor winked. "Go have your bath, I promise it's okay."

Yuuri was towel-drying his hair when his phone pinged with an instagram notification. It was a picture of their skates, leaning against the window and the skyline of Tokyo beyond, their gold medals from Euros and the 4CC arranged over each pair respectively, sitting beside the flags on their heels. _Getting ready for Worlds with @y_katsuki! #TeamJapan #TeamRussia #ChampionsOnly_ , read Victor's caption. Phichit had already liked it.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri decided somewhere over the Pacific that he would never again let himself get wrapped up in Victor's excitement to travel completely around the world in the space of three months. He'd called it Operation Zoloste as he'd gleefully booked their tickets after Nationals, and Yuuri had humoured him with the typical bemused grace he exhibited when confronted with Victor's particular brand of childish delight. No amount of first class sleep pods however could romanticize the sticky feeling on Yuuri's skin, or the fact that the only assuredly clean thing he had in his suitcases were his competitive costumes. He found himself missing St. Petersburg, the quiet warmth of their apartment and, desperately, Makkachin. It was a small comfort to know that in Boston at least, they wouldn't have to stay in a hotel.

It took a ridiculously long amount of time for them to get through customs, but then Yuuri was pulling Victor through the security gate and scanning the waiting crowd of people for a familiar face. His eyes caught the poster first, handmade on neon pink bristol board and sporting more hearts than he thought necessary. Boston Welcomes Champion Katsuki Yuuri. Each "O" had been carefully recreated into a glittering likeness of the medals he'd won so far over the season. There were several photos of him, clearly printed from the ISU website, each one surrounded by doilies. Yuuri buried his nose deeper into his medical mask.

"Yuuri!"

James darted out from beside his husband, under the ribbon marking the exit walkway from the rest of the arrivals area, and wrapped Yuuri up into a fierce hug that would have knocked him over if Yuuri hadn't been a solid mass of competition muscle.

"Oh!" Yuuri laughed, as James flitted around him, planting light kisses on both his cotton covered cheeks. James turned and pressed the sides of their faces together, his gaze following the line of Yuuri's arm to where it met Victor's hand, and then up to Victor's face.

"Yuu-yu," he whispered, "he looks _just_ like your posters!"

"Jamie," he admonished, blushing. Yuuri had somehow forgotten in the last year how exuberant Americans were. The smile on Victor's face would have fooled almost anyone, as it was, Yuuri knew it was a little strained. He cleared his throat, but Paul had already strode forwards to help him.

"Victor," he boomed, stooping a little the way he did when he wanted to make his six-feet-two-inches seem less threatening. He held out a large hand, and when Victor reached out to shake it, Paul clasped his hand warmly in both of his own. "Welcome to Boston; it's so nice to finally meet you."

 

James was small and slight, the same height as Yuuri but leaner, his physique tailored by his dedication to long distance running. He had thick honey-coloured hair and stunningly changeable hazel eyes, and Victor thought, as he watched Yuuri help James set the table, that they looked like a matched pair of salt and pepper shakers.

"You'll sit here, Yuu-yu," James said. "I'll put a bowl out for your minute rice."

"Ah, don't!" Yuuri laughed, for this was clearly a private joke. "Your mom was just trying… it was a nice sentiment..."

"Carol tries her best," Paul agreed, handing Victor a glass of wine. "The first time I met her, she wished me a happy Kwanza."

Victor did not understand the joke, but he laughed along anyway, taking a sip of wine to hide his confusion.

"Can I help you with anything for dinner, Paul?" he asked politely, but Paul made a shooing motion with his hands.

"I'm all good here, thanks Victor! You're our guest!" He tapped the oven. "I hope roast chicken is okay, someone forgot to print your meal plans at work on Friday..."

"I did _not_ forget!" James called over the counter. "I put them in my laptop bag and then of course I left it a work, because who works on a weekend when two handsome international athletes show up at their door?"

Paul pulled on the lock of dark hair over his forehead, which sprang right back into a sharp corkscrew of curl. "Of course honey," he smiled fondly. It was a good look for him, crinkling the corners of his black eyes and making the freckles that dotted his richly tanned skin stand out across his wide nose.

Yuuri smiled fondly too. Finished arranging napkins, he joined Victor at the counter, placing a hand on the small of Victor's back and reaching for his glass of water with the other. "It's fine," he promised. "The competition isn't for a few weeks... and we have the meal plans on the training iPad, right, Victor?"

"We can have a cheat day," Victor agreed, clinking their glasses together and relaxing into the warmth of Yuuri next to him.

 

Dinner was delicious, Paul was an excellent cook, and the conversation was peppered with recipe tips and the usual topics of people who know one another well, and are trying to keep a new person interested. Victor was tired from travelling and so he let most of it wash over him, until they started to reminisce.

"God we were almost busted a hundred times," James laughed. "That lady who worked the café was definitely on to us."

Yuuri set his elbow on the table and his chin into his palm, his cheeks made pink by a large meal and two glasses of wine. His smile was adorably lopsided. "She wouldn't have said anything, she was so sweet! It was the janitor who I was always worried about."

James chuckled and shook his head. "Remember when Angela found us together in your room in the middle of the night?"

Yuuri turned scarlet, and Victor was momentarily, irrationally upset. Whatever story James was referring to was clearly embarrassing for Yuuri, so why bring it up? He opened his mouth to say something light and flippant, to change the subject, but then Yuuri choked out a tight laugh.

"Ah, she'd had a nightmare," Yuuri said, his eyes darting towards Victor and then down into his lap. "And she... she thought my posters were princes. Princes who protected you from bad dreams."

"We told her I'd had a nightmare too," James said softly.

It hung there, over the table for a few moments, and then James barked a sharp, bright laugh. "It made her year, getting to snuggle with Yuuri..."

Victor felt his nose heat and he hid it by staring down at his empty plate. It was almost too much to think of, that his own likeness had watched for an entire summer as Yuuri learned his own body and someone else's; that beneath a poster of Victor, Yuuri had curled a small child between himself and his lover and made her feel safe. It stung, because he wanted it, and he had to take a moment to remind himself that Yuuri's past was what had led him to the present, where he was Victor's.

"You need to stop sending Angie postcards, Yuuri," Paul laughed. "Give the straight boys a chance."

James sighed in agreement. "She cried harder when you moved out than any of the times I went away to college. Although I think you might be getting edged out by Phichit."

"She has good taste," Victor smiled brightly. He glanced at Yuuri, who blinked once at him through his glasses, almost fast enough that Victor nearly missed his tiny frown.

"She does!" James agreed. He got to his feet and began to clear the table. "Do you want some tea, Yuu-yu? Victor?"

"Ah, I brought tea," Yuuri said, raising his hands and smiling in a way that suggested there was also a story behind why. "I'll get it from the suitcase!" He shot up from the table and disappeared down the hall, his footsteps pounding up the stairs to the guest bedroom.

James carried their stacked plates into the kitchen and Paul poured the remainder of the bottle of wine between his and Victor's glasses. Paul waited until James had turned on the sink and was humming to himself as he tucked dirty cutlery into the dishwasher.

"It was hard," he said, his smile gentle, understanding, and friendly, "the first time I met Yuuri; James and I had just started dating. I mean, our senior team went to state, but I couldn't exactly compare to an Olympic athlete. And Yuuri is... he's lovely. I'm not proud of how jealous I was..." Paul laughed a little to himself, slightly embarrassed. "But they're like brothers – I'm glad Yuuri was there for him."

Victor nodded, his throat suddenly tight. He took a gulp of his wine and put on a brave smile. "Sorry," he apologized, "sorry, it's been a really long day; I think the travel is catching up to me."

Paul patted Victor's hand and then stood up from the table, carrying his wine and the bread basket with him to the kitchen. He stooped down to kiss the side of James' head and murmured "Do you want a coffee, my honey?"

Yuuri chose to appear in the doorway then, clutching a giant ziploc bag of not only his precious tins of sencha and genmaicha, but also a familiar box covered in cyrillic. The tightness in Victor's throat spread down into his chest, and his heart fluttered against his ribs. "You brought my tea," he breathed, and even though it wasn't a question, Yuuri nodded. His shy smile grew triumphant as he opened his other fist to display a small jar of sour cherry jam balanced on his palm.

 

On his way back to the guest room from brushing his teeth for bed, Yuuri found Victor in deep contemplation of the framed photographs decorating the upstairs hallway. There were family photos and pictures of friends from Boston and Detroit, of which Yuuri featured in a few. Victor had stopped in front of a large montage of James' and Paul's wedding. Yuuri slid next to him and put his arm around Victor's waist, scanning the pictures for his favourite one.

"That's Angie," he said softly, tapping the glass over a picture of himself, his tie nearly undone and looped loose around his neck, laughing into the camera. A girl in a red dress with the same honey-coloured hair as James was standing barefoot on top of Yuuri's dress shoes as they danced, grinning toothily. "Phichit took this picture, he added with a small smile.

Victor pointed to a different photo, of James and Paul standing in the centre of a garden. Beside Paul was a gathering of seven people, and next to James was Angela and Yuuri. "You were in the wedding party," he said.

"Sort of," Yuuri corrected. He pointed to another picture of six men in matching blue suits. "These are the groomsmen. Angie and I – we gave James away."

Victor said nothing, and Yuuri, unsure if the giving away of the bride was a tradition in Russian marriages the way it was in Western ones, tried to provide context. "It's a thing they do here; the father walks the bride into the church and gives her to the groom? It's a weird practice, but... Jamie's mom – Carol – she was pretty accepting, but his dad... Jamie asked me, and of course, I – Angie wanted to be there, but she was only twelve; she couldn't go by herself, so Phichit and I pretended we were taking her to an ice show..."

"You're his family," Victor said, and Yuuri blushed a bit.

"Kind of, I guess? Angie was nervous to do it alone so– "

He was cut off abruptly by Victor wrapping him into a tight hug. "You're amazing, Yuuri."

Yuuri patted Victor awkwardly on his back. "No, no, he asked me, and I was just helping out. Should... should we get to bed? I'm exhausted. And we'll need to get groceries and stop by the rink tomorrow, right?"

Victor said something into Yuuri's shoulder in Russian that he didn't catch enough to understand, but he let go of Yuuri so he could steer them both into the guest bedroom, and blissfully, to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The Russian team arrived in Boston two weeks before the World Championships, because everything apparently revolved around Victor. Their National and European Champion couldn't be denied his coach for final run-throughs, so Yuri, Georgi and Mila were uprooted from Yubileyny and forced to practice at the rink Victor booked for them through ISU contacts in America. Georgi was just happy to be competing and Mila accepted it with good grace, but Yuri was furious. He'd placed second at Nationals and fourth at the Euros, he had a world record and had won the Grand Prix, and now he had to prepare for his first senior Worlds with frankly inferior equipment and facilities. He stomped off the ice after the first day fully intending to give Victor a scathing piece of his mind for being so selfish. Then Yuuri walked into the rink, spotted Yuri, smiled so wide and waved so excitedly, and Yuri's mind went hazy and all his complaints fizzled down into a few incoherent grumbles. And then of course, a week before the competition, Yuri's phone buzzed on the breakfast table of the hotel.

 _Just landed_ , Beka wrote.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri beat both Yurio and Victor in the short program. Yuuri beat everyone; he skated second last, and when he heard his score, two tenths of a point under the current world record, he blinked at Victor – who was now in second place and thrilled to be there – and started to cry.

"No, no, Yuuri," Victor cooed, pulling him into the safety of his Russian Olympic jacket, "Sweetheart..."

"Sorry," Yuuri sobbed, his entire body going stiff. "Victor..." He pressed his hands tighter over his face, and his breath started to get short.

"Shhh. Shh, it's okay… " Victor whispered, stroking Yuuri's back and looking frantically around until he spotted Phichit, already walking towards the kiss and cry with a carefully controlled expression on his face.

It was Celestino, however, who knelt next to them.

"Yuuri," he said calmly, and he very obviously did not touch him. "Do you think you can stand up? Emil is going to need this spot in about five minutes."

"Ye… yesss," Yuuri gasped, but in Japanese he said "I can't breathe," a phrase Mari had taught Victor to recognize.

"Okay," Victor said quickly, and he tightened his arm around Yuuri's back, tucked his other arm under Yuuri's knees, and hauled himself up off the bench with a slight grunt. "Okay, Yuuri." He left Celestino and Phichit in the kiss and cry gathering up flowers and stuffed animals and carried Yuuri away from the rink, heading towards the medical area. He continued to make soothing noises to cover the helpless panic that was rising over him. "It's okay, it's okay, I've got you," he whispered.

"Victor! Here, please."

Paul was motioning towards a quiet side hallway, where James was setting out Yuuri's mat, already sitting to open a first aid kit. Yuuri had joked, handing them their event badges, that since James worked as web designer he got to be the choreographer, and Paul, who was a paramedic, more aptly got to pose as Yuuri's trainer. It was unlike Yuuri to want people he knew watching him so closely, but now, as Paul knelt next to James and started pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves, Victor had never been happier to see him. Victor set Yuuri down gently, and then his hands hung uselessly in the air.

"I'm going to go get his water," James said quietly, and Paul nodded.

"Yuuri, it's Paul. Can you lower your hands for me?"

Yuuri's hands tensed into fists balled over his eyes, and the release of his nose and mouth made the hallway fill with the choked sounds of his breathing. Victor made a pained noise.

"Okay my honey, you're almost there," Paul said easily. "Lets breathe a bit okay? I really need you to put your hands down."

For a moment, nothing happened, and then Yuuri's fists slid up onto his forehead. Paul made a slight _tsking_ noise and muttered "Good enough." He turned to Victor. "Can you take his skates off, please?"

Victor moved to comply as Paul took off his jacket, leaned towards Yuuri, and draped it over the two of their heads. From under it Victor heard him start talking to Yuuri in an even voice.

"Yuuri, it's just you and me, now. We're going to sit here and breathe, okay?" The jacket twitched; Yuuri was nodding. Victor pulled Yuuri's skates off and set them down, and because he couldn't help himself, he wrapped his hand around Yuuri's left foot. He sat there for several agonizing moments, until, at last, Paul spoke again.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Ha... he-ey," came Yuuri's reply, and Victor squeezed his foot in relief.

"Can you tell me a good thing, Yuuri?" Paul asked. "Just one good thing, while I check your pulse."

"I... I'm first..." He whispered hoarsely.

"You are! We are so proud of you! It was _so sexy_ , goddamn, Yuuri! Tell me another good thing, I'm just going to shine this light in your eyes for a second."

"I skated... o-on the same ice. The same ice as – as Victor."

Victor lowered his eyes to Yuuri's stocking feet, his hair swishing over his eye.

"Mmmhmm, you did baby, you skated so well!" Paul laughed. "Do you know what, I'll tell you a good thing: that guy Victor looks at you like you invented sliced bread."

Yuuri laughed weakly. "I'm... I'm going to marry him."

"Good, lock it down. That man is _gorgeous_. Do you think you're ready to see him?"

"Oh… _yes_."

Victor looked up, as the jacket fell away and Paul sat back to give them some space, and there was Yuuri. His hair was falling out of his competition hairstyle and his face was a little flushed, his eyes wet and red. But he was _smiling_.

"Zolotse," Victor said, but Yuuri shook his head.

"Tomorrow," he promised. "Call me that tomorrow when I've won."

 

That night, after cool down, pressers, and a call home to Japan, Victor and Yuuri snuck into the arena they'd been using to train. Victor did a few double jumps while Yuuri skated soothing, complicated figures into the ice. He let his mind empty and hollow out, and then Yuuri did two laps of the rink before snapping out a huge triple axel, triple loop, double toe combination. Victor just laughed and shook his head, holding his hands out to Yuuri as he started to skate forwards and pick up speed. Yuuri did the opening step sequence from Eros and as he slid into Victor, bending in to jump; Victor set his hands on Yuuri's hips and threw him into the air. Yuuri spun twice before he landed, free leg high, chin lifted, and reaching back towards Victor, who flung his arms desperately wide, and then reached for Yuuri as well, skates stroking deeply along the ice to catch up to him. Yuuri did a quick twizzle, his eyes downcast and a small smile on his lips, arms gracefully extended, and he felt Victor's arms circle his waist, and let himself be pulled into the spin.

Yuuri had been dancing since he was a small child; he knew how to spot and he did it well, it was one of the things that let him execute such complicated twizzles and spins. But when he skated like this with Victor, safely enclosed in his arms and using each other for momentum, he always closed his eyes. When they slowed to a stop, Yuuri had one hand raised over his head and the other pressed to his chest, his back arched carefully, and Victor was kneeling on the ice. Yuuri felt dizzy, giddy, powerful; he looked down at Victor and Victor looked up at him, his smile neither unrestrained heart shaped enthusiasm, or the tight one from television, but the one that was just for Yuuri: small, loving and proud.

"You are absolutely beautiful," Victor told him.

Yuuri straightened his back, set his fingers on Victor's cheeks, and gave him a smile of his own. He didn't say anything, because they both knew.

 

The following evening, Victor did two short turns in front of the boards, waiting for Chris' score to be announced. Uncharacteristically, Chris had two-footed the landing of his quad lutz, and Victor knew he wouldn't be happy with his marks. Chris's fifth place finish flashed up on the scoreboard before it was called out to the arena, and Victor shook his head slightly, and then pushed it out of his mind. He didn't think about how Yuri was currently in second, or that Phichit had stunned everyone to currently sit in first. There were still two skaters left to perform, of whom Victor had high expectations.

He unzipped his jacket and passed it to Yakov, and then he set his hands on top of the boards and bowed his head so he could tune out whatever inspirational lecture Yakov was now going to deliver. For the first time in his competitive life, hands closed over his own.

Last year at Worlds, Victor had pictured Yuuri rink-side before he'd gone out to skate Stammi Vincino. Yakov had droned out something about the motherland, and Victor had imagined Yuuri over his shoulder, dressed in only his socks and boxer-briefs and with his tie around his head, grinning and nodding at him once. _Watch me_ , Victor had thought. _This is for you. Please, please find me._

Yuuri squeezed Victor's fingers, and Victor slowly raised his head. There was a deep buzz of Russian as Yakov started talking, but Victor gazed into Yuuri's large dark eyes. He watched as Yuuri raised Victor's own right hand to his lips, and kissed his ring; Yuuri smiled shyly against his fingers, and Victor's breath hitched quietly. He leaned over and hugged Yuuri tightly, and then his name was being called, and Victor was moving, skating to center ice to thunderous applause. He waved to the audience and presented himself to the judges, and then he took his starting position. The music began, and Victor moved, and he never took his eyes off Yuuri.

_Watch me, this is for you._

Victor's score knocked Phichit out of first.

 

After his skate, Victor was barred from standing with Yuuri, because as a skater he would be docked points by not going to the kiss and cry. Victor watched from across the ice as Yuuri removed his skate guards and stepped carefully onto the ice, and then he called Yuuri's phone. James handed it over the boards to Yuuri with a wink. For a moment, over the phone, they just breathed together.

"Yuuri," Victor said softly. "I think I left my heart on the ice… it's wearing a blue suit with a _very_ flattering mesh cut-out…"

Across the ice, Yuuri smiled. "Such a model coach," he whispered. He slid his feet back and forth for a moment, and then looked up at the ceiling of the rink with a sigh. "I guess… I'll have to show everyone where your heart belongs."

 

Yuuri stood at center ice, about to attempt the impossible, which was defeat Victor Nikiforov in an International skating competition. Last year, Yuuri hadn't even made it to Worlds; he'd been in Ice Castle Hasetsu, embarrassing himself in a soon-to-be-viral video. But that had made the impossible happen – it catapulted Victor into his hometown, his local rink, and then firmly, his life and heart.

The music for Yuri on Ice began, and Yuuri skated. He would never be able to recall the program later; the best way he could explain it was that he went deep within himself, and floated there in his thoughts for four minutes _._

_I might be a dime-a-dozen skater, but I can do more._

_I can be more, more than Victor's ever imagined, because he believes in me._

_This program... this season – it isn't the end. It's the beginning._

_We're on the same ice now, Victor. Everyone can see you in me, and me, in you._

_Let's skate together, from now on. Let's make history together!_

_Watch me Victor, this is for_ us _._

Yuuri's heartbeat was thundering in his ears, his chest heaving, but he didn't feel tired. He looked down the line of his arm at Victor, not pointing but inviting, palm upturned, the ring on his right hand pressed over his heart.

 _We belong here_ , he thought, _you and I_.

At the Grand Prix Final, overcome with the knowledge he'd just skated the best program of his life, Yuuri had thrown his fists in the air and shouted in triumph. At Worlds, he knew he'd skated even better, and he simply gathered in his arm, clasped his hands together over his heart, and allowed himself to feel happy.

 

"I'm going to lose," Victor breathed, and Yuuri nearly choked on his water.

" _Victor_ ," he gasped, turning towards the man who was both his coach and strongest competitor, his childhood hero and his friend. Their knees bumped together – one wearing Russian red and the other still sweaty in blue lycra – and Yuuri forgot what else he was going to say, because Victor was _grinning_.

"I'm going to make you work so hard for this, next year, solnyshko; you're going to pay for ending my streak-"

"They haven't even announced the scores yet!" Yuuri barked, but Victor's heart-shaped grin was infectious, he was smiling too. "Wait," he laughed, "wait until-"

A sound cut him off, a sound that was terribly loud and startling, that sounded to Yuuri like seventeen thousand people having the air punched out of them. Yuuri was used to hearing it when he fell in competition, but he'd never heard it sitting in the kiss and cry before.

They both turned abruptly to the monitor in front of them, but the numbers were too small, Yuuri couldn't make them out from where he was sitting.

_The marks for Mr. Yuuri Katsuki, of Japan…_

The announcement rang through Yuuri, but it couldn't fight against the noise of his own heartbeat in his ears, drowning everything else out. He wanted Victor to look at him, but Victor was still facing the monitor, his eye hidden by his hair. The corner of Victor's mouth curled down, and the edges of Yuuri's vision started to grey out.

"Vitya?"

It sounded small, barely there, but Victor heard it, Victor turned, and it was too much, too many sounds rushed in all at once, because Yuuri had made Victor cry, but he'd never, ever seen this look on Victor's face: broken, defeated, lost.

_No no no no no no_

It screamed over and over in his head and couldn't drown out that voice, always in the back of his mind. _You did this you crushed him-_

And then louder, the clipped American accent of the arena announcer, who once again mispronounced his name.

_Mr. Katsuki is in fourth place._


	2. Gold for Katsuki

_Mr. Katsuki is in fourth place._

A low, ominous noise came out of the audience, and Yuri watched the central scoreboard, where a picture of Yuuri, face flushed and eyes wide, was staring out over the arena. Victor was turned to face him, and Yuri couldn't see his expression head-on.

"Congratulations, Yura," Yakov rumbled next to him.

"What?"

Yakov tilted his chin towards the leaderboard. "You've won a bronze medal. Russia is proud of you."

Yuri's hands started to shake as the realization of what he had accomplished hit him. His vision blurred and he spun abruptly away from Yakov, ignored Lilia's sharp call of his name, and started running towards the kiss and cry.

 

* * *

 

_Mr. Katsuki is in fourth place._

Victor watched Yuuri's face turn away to look up at the scores; he watched the edge of Yuuri's right eye widen, saw his fist close so tightly on his knee that the edge of his ring dug into his finger.  

He wanted to say something, anything, to once again grab Yuuri and shelter him against his jacket, but he had gone completely numb.

Victor had just won his sixth consecutive World Title, and it shattered him.

 

* * *

 

_Mr. Katsuki is in fourth place._

Yuuri's head snapped abruptly from Victor's face to the scoreboard – where, glaringly, for the world to see, was the lowest PCS he'd ever been given, and a technical mark he barely had the sense to try to break out and calculate – and his hands balled into fists. He understood only one thing: he needed to not be where he was.

Air rushed abruptly into his lungs and Yuuri nearly choked on it; he lurched to his feet and smiled tightly, almost maniacal, for the audience, giving them a brief wave.

_Fourth place, fourth place, fourth place..._

The sound of the crowd was distant; a buzz in his head that prevented him from thinking too much about whether they were cheering or shouting. Yuuri grabbed for the flowers piled up next to him and didn't stop to make sure he had them all. He stalked towards the exit, the one that would take him deep into the arena and away from all these people, the one that would lead him somewhere quiet and dark and alone. Something grabbed for his wrist and Yuuri shook it off like he'd been stung, flowers exploding from his arms and all over the floor.

"Yuuri?"

It was Victor. Victor standing there clutching his right hand in his left as though he'd caught it before Yuuri could throw it completely away. He was taller and bigger than Yuuri but he looked so small, helpless and hurt, his eyes starting to fill with beautiful tears. Something broke in Yuuri but he couldn't do that here, with everyone watching.

"Don't!" he snapped, and then he shook his head to try and prevent himself from crying right then and there. "I just… I…"

"Katsudon!"

Yurio brushed past him, not close enough to touch him but near enough that his momentum curled Yuuri towards his small retreating back, propelled his feet away from the rink and so many eyes, and Yuuri, grateful, followed along in his wake. Yurio was faster in his running shoes than Yuuri was in his skates, and by the time Yuuri caught up to him he was already holding open the door of the men's washroom.

"Do you need," Yurio began, but Yuuri wrenched the door closed and managed to make it into the first stall and the added security of a sliding lock before he collapsed forwards and was violently, wretchedly sick.

 

Yuri let the door slam in his face. "I won't-" he said faintly, sinking to his knees, "I won't let anyone in, then." It caught in his throat and Yuri felt a hundred things try to rise to the surface of his face, try to claw their way out. He grit his teeth and was dimly aware that he had started again to cry, but he needed to get to his feet and stand tall. There would be others soon, and they could go to hell before Yuri let them past him. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his face, blinking hard, and that was when he noticed Otabek.

"He needs to be alone," Yuri said, and for some reason it hurt him to say it.

Beka nodded. "And you?"

Yuri stared at him and after a moment Otabek leaned over and helped Yuri to his feet. He set his hand between Yuri's shoulder blades, and faced out into the hallway. "We will stand together," he told Yuri simply, and Yuri squared his shoulders into the warmth of Beka's hand, let his gaze sharpen and his features harden into something brave.

"No one will get by us," he agreed.

This was immediately tested by the arrival of Victor. He stumbled abruptly into the hallway, and this time Yuri was not spared the look on Victor's face. He was openly crying, and it was strange and unwelcome territory for someone used to the unflappable skating legend of Russia; it made anger curl tight in Yuri's gut and he thought he might be sick.

"Is he in there, Yurio?" Victor asked desperately, and he sounded like maybe Yuuri had died.

"Yuri said Katsuki wanted to be alone," Otabek supplied, looking between the two of them, but Victor stared at Yuri.

"I'll move," Yuri spat, "If you fucking pull yourself together."

Victor gaped at him, and then his eyes narrowed the way they did when Victor was at his sharpest; when he wanted to hurt you and would, if you didn't cut your shit out, and that was a Victor Yuri could at least meet halfway.

"How _dare_ you," Victor began, and Yuri felt Beka's hand slide up to try to grip his shoulder before he was stepping forwards, putting himself as up in Victor's face as his five feet and four inches would allow.

"I'm not letting you in there to cry all over the pig, he doesn't fucking need that too!"

"Yura," Beka said quietly, but he ignored him.

"You think that's going to help, Victor? The two of you fucking sobbing all over the bathroom? God! Yakov is always droning on and on about how you're so _dependable_ , about how nothing phases you: one lip quiver from the pig and you fall to fucking pieces-"

"Um… Victor?"

They all turned; standing a bit down the hall were the two Americans Victor and Yuuri had been staying with. Yuri rearranged his thoughts to continue his diatribe in English for their benefit, but Victor spoke first.

"Paul, please, he's in the washroom."

The taller one nodded, both of them striding forwards, but Yuri stood his ground. "No one is going in there," he hissed.

The smaller of the two men, still larger than both Yuri and Otabek, made a sharp snort in the back of his throat. "Oh child," he said, "You do _not_ want to start with me. Move or I will move _you_."

"I will have to ask you not to threaten my skater," rumbled the hallway, and then Yakov and Lilia were there. Yakov's support did not make Yuri feel braver, instead, he deflated; the fight going out of him. Beka squeezed his shoulder.

"Vitya, Yura," Yakov continued in Russian, "You must return to the ice for the medal ceremony."

Victor outright laughed. "Unbelievable. You _cannot_ be serious right now, Yakov!" he shouted incredulously.

"I am, Vitya."

"I'm not going to go out there to let them put that medal around my neck! _His_ medal, Yakov! You are insane!"

Yuri blinked at them, his mouth gaping open. _His medal_. Yuuri had skated well, of course, but… Yuri felt his heartbeat speed up. On an intellectual level, he knew the mark had been too low. But if he thought about it, if he poked at the facts, he'd have to think about his own performance, and the mark he'd been given too.

"Victor… what are you talking about?" he whispered, but no one heard him save Otabek. He felt Beka's arm drop over his shoulders and leaned into it, because it also felt like the ground had disappeared underneath his feet. It was the leeway the Americans needed to slip past him and into the washroom. Victor moved to follow them, but Yakov put a restraining hand on Victor's sleeve.

"Don't," Victor said coldly, and that was worse than the yelling, but Yakov stayed firm.

"You can't help him now," he said, "and if you do not appear for the medal ceremony you will be ostracized by the ISU and the-"

"Do you think," Victor said unevenly, "that I give a _shit_ about the ISU right now?"

It took a lot, to get Victor to swear. Yuri had only heard him do it once before, when he crashed hip-first into the boards taking a jump too close. He'd immediately apologized after, but Victor was not apologizing now.

"Let go of me!" he shouted.

"I will carry you out there if I have to, Victor!"

"Ah, Mr. Nikiforov? There you are!" An entirely too cheerful man wearing an ISU blazer and credentials had appeared in the hallway, carrying a walkie-talkie. Behind him, Yuri could see Celestino Cialdini and Phichit Chulanont, who looked like he'd been crying.

"And Mr. Plisetsky, splendid!" The ISU steward continued, smiling at them all. Yuri noted that his credentials said his name was Keith. "If you could all follow me, we're going to get you set up for the podium-"

"I am not going," Victor cut in flatly, and Keith's smile faded.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'd like to file an official complaint with the ISU, on behalf of the JSF and their skater Katsuki Yuuri," Victor said, finally shaking off Yakov, who was glaring daggers at him. "I want to speak to the referee and I want to see the score cards."

Keith looked terribly in over his head. "Mr. Nikiforov, you don't have that authority as a skater," he explained, confused.

"I'm his coach!" Victor shouted in frustration, thrusting his credentials at Keith, but the steward was shaking his head.

"I'm sorry Mr. Nikiforov but you belong to the RSF, you can't file a complaint on behalf of another skating federation. I need to take you back to the kiss and cry, please. They are waiting to present the medals."

Phichit and Celestino shared a long look, and then they both nodded. "I'll file one then," Celestino said, and he stared directly at Yakov as he said it, like he was challenging the other man. "On behalf of my skater and FSAT. I want to see the score cards for every man who skated today."

Victor beamed at Celestino and Keith made a very frustrated sound, his mouth opening and closing like a startled fish. "Better get on that radio, Keith," Victor smiled sweetly, his eyes sharp. "Please tell the ISU-" but whatever he was going to say was halted by the noise of the door opening behind Yuri.

"Oh," Phichit said quietly, almost a sob.

Yuuri stepped out of the doorway, and Yuri backed into Otabek, who had not once removed his arm from around Yuri's shoulder. That grip tightened now, as Yuri stared. Yuuri was not short; in skates he was nearly the same height as Victor, and he loomed in the doorway like an ominous shadow. Yuri was used to seeing him soft – cheeks rounded and eyes squished with that ridiculous expression he wore as he hummed at Yuri – but that was gone. He was all sharpness and angles, high cheekbones and firm chin, lips in a thin line as he stared at all of them a little down his nose. There was absolutely no evidence that he'd been crying, he was paler than usual, his eyebrows and eyelashes standing out in sharp relief on his face, but his eyes were clear, and burning with something that made both Otabek and Yuri take another step back together when his gaze swept over them. He assessed everyone standing in the hallway, and then his eyes fell on the skater from Thailand.

"Phichit-kun," he murmured, smiling a little.

That seemed to be an unspoken permission; Phichit launched himself at Yuuri, and Yuuri opened his arms to let him.

"Yuuri!" Phichit sobbed, "I won't go out there without you!"

They stood there for a few minutes, Phichit sobbing noiselessly into Yuuri's shoulder, until Yuuri gently pulled away. He cupped Phichit's face in his hands, an intimate gesture that Yuri had never seen him perform before.

"Phichit-kun!" Yuuri exclaimed, and he was smiling tightly, the edges of his eyes watering. "You have to go, you won the silver medal. You made _history_ , Phichit-kun, a medal for Thailand!" He hugged Phichit again, looking at Yuri over his shoulder.

"You worked so hard," Yuuri said quietly, and Yuri felt his stomach tying itself into knots. "You've pushed yourself to meet your goals this year, and you did so well. I'm _proud_ of you!" He smiled, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and Yuri couldn't look at him anymore. Too many things were happening, too many allegations and half-hints, and he felt like his thoughts were splitting apart before they could take hold.

"Fuck," Yuri said quietly, because it was the only word that could encapsulate what was going on.

Yuuri hugged Phichit a bit tighter, rubbing a soothing circle into his back, rocking them slightly back and forth. "You have to go out there," he said, and his eyes cut towards Victor.

Victor's jaw tightened, and he stared down at his right hand, his ring glinting slightly in the fluorescent lights of the hallway. Yuuri watched Victor with an unflinching gaze until finally Victor nodded once, defeated.

 

Victor skated to centre ice to receive the medal, and while he waved to the crowd to acknowledge their support, he did not smile. Waiting on the centre step of the podium, he towered over Phichit and Yuri, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He looked blankly forwards until Phichit received his medal and started to cry; Victor reached one hand out then and set it gently on Phichit's shoulder, because he knew that was what Yuuri would have done for him.

He kept it there to steady himself, when he leaned over so the ISU representative could pass the ribbon over his head. There was the typical "Congratulations again, Mr. Nikiforov," but Victor did not thank them as he normally did. He did not hold up the medal for pictures, or lift it to his lips to kiss it, because it didn't belong to him. He was given his bouquet, and while Victor was mostly indifferent towards fresh flowers, he knew Yuuri liked to receive them, and wondered if he would at least accept these. The bouquet was roses in majority, which was not one of Yuuri's favorites.

_Cherry blossoms, peonies, irises, lilacs._ Victor listed them in his head. Flowers that burst to life and faded after only a short while. Flowers that were special because you could only have them for a little bit. Yuuri had started to fill their apartment with little houseplants; he came home from the grocery store with them, stopped at nurseries and florists on his way home from practice because they were warm inside. He sang to the plants in Japanese as he watered them, and that was _so_ Yuuri, to be surrounded by life, vibrant and caring. But then, Yuuri hummed quietly to almost everything; the dishes as he put them away in the cupboard, Makkachin as he clipped on her leash for a walk, Victor as he danced around him in the kitchen, as he spun him down the hallway towards their bedroom, hips making a song all their own. He had brought music and laughter and _richness_ to Victor's life, and it wasn't easy or simple but it belonged to Victor, and he was determined to make sure it was a flower that was always in bloom.

Victor was angry; he was mad at the referee, at the judges, at irascibly friendly Keith, at the ISU in general. He was mad at the JSF, who should have stepped forward immediately to halt the proceedings and demand a recalculation of Yuuri's marks. He was mad at Yakov, who tolerated Yuuri as though he were one of Victor's whims and refused to acknowledge how talented and dedicated and _special_ he was. He was mad at himself, because he wanted to compete against Yuuri, to lay everything out on the ice that Yuuri made him feel, to push himself to be better – the best – because of that, and he had wanted to beat Yuuri. But he didn't want to win like this.

The opening strain of the Hymn of the Russian Federation began, and Victor pressed his lips into a thin line, watching as two Russian flags, and for the first time, the flag of Thailand unfurled across the arena to be raised. His eyes started to prickle and he forced himself to remain stoically unaffected; he was on live television and there would be hundreds of photos of him everywhere tomorrow. The anthem had not yet reached the minute mark, when Victor felt something poke his left calf.

He looked down to find Yurio staring up at him, looking very tiny from the third-place step. Yurio shuffled to the left, making space on the wide expanse of his platform. Something like a smile tugged at Victor's lips; he put his arm around Yurio, and stepped down from the first-place podium to stand beside him, both of them lower than Phichit, because that was also right. Yurio put his arm around Victor's waist. "Congratulations to us," Yurio said quietly, and when he started to cry, Victor pressed him a bit closer to his side. He looked over at Phichit, who nodded at them, and then together, the three of them stood for the rest of the anthem, the first-place platform left symbolically empty.

 

Yuuri watched the medal ceremony from a spot behind the podium, where Victor would not be able to see him. He was glad, because when Victor put his hand on Phichit's shoulder, fat tears started leaking down Yuuri's cheeks, and James and Paul both pressed closer to him, bolstering him up. When Victor stepped down onto Yurio's platform with him, Yuuri resisted the urge to curl up into a ball against the boards, grateful for the warmth of his friends on either side of him. It was good he didn't waiver, because that was when Hashimoto-sama approached him. Both the referee and Technical Spotter were with the JSF President, and Yuuri straightened his spine. This had never happened to him like this before, but every skater knew the regulations.

"Will you excuse me?" he said quietly to James and Paul, stepping carefully out of the protective cage of their shoulders. James shot him a look that was clearly asking if Yuuri wanted them to go with him, and he smiled slightly and shook his head. "Victor will have to do a press conference," he explained. "Can you wait for him, and take him back to the house afterwards? I think I might be awhile."

 

Victor could not find Yuuri, or James or Paul. He was herded to the press conference after he watched Phichit and Yuri skate a victory lap from centre ice, and on the way in he was pulled aside by a very flustered and apologetic woman with JSF credentials, who told him that he was to refrain from speaking about Katsuki Yuuri, until an official statement could be released.

"Are you challenging it?" he pleaded, because they had to, they had to fight for Yuuri, and he wouldn't stand by silent if they didn't.

"Hashimoto-sama and Katsuki-san are with the referee now," she said, which was not a direct answer, but good enough.

When a reporter from NBC asked Victor how he felt, defeating his own skater, Victor just smiled his public smile.

"I have been asked by the JSF not to comment as Katsuki Yuuri's coach. I can answer your questions as a skater, but I'm old news, don't you think? Wouldn't you rather ask me about Phichit Chulanont, who I have to congratulate on his historic medal for Thailand..."

 

After an hour of talking circles around the international press, Victor found James and Paul waiting with both his and Yuuri's equipment outside the locker room.

"Is he...?"

Paul shook his head. "He's still talking to the ISU, I think."

"Good. That's good, I'll just – sorry to make you wait; I'll change quickly and text him, I should be there too–"

"He asked us to bring you home," James said carefully. "Is that okay, Victor?"

Victor felt his nose heat, momentarily at a loss for words. His ring felt very warm around his finger. He flipped his hair out of his eye and smiled brightly for James and Paul. "Of course," he lied, "if that's what Yuuri wants."

 

Yuri was laying across his hotel room bed, checking the _#GoldForKatsuki_ tag on twitter, when his feed updated with a tweet from Yuuri's barely used official account. He had no idea what it said, because it was in Japanese, but there was a link, so he clicked it. It opened to a page on the JSF website, which was also in Japanese, but had an English translation underneath, identifying it as a press statement from Yuuri.

_On behalf of the JSF, I wish to offer my heartfelt congratulations to Victor Nikiforov, Phichit Chulanont, and Yuri Plisetsky on the results of the 2017 World Championships. They are all close friends; Mr. Chulanont and Mr. Plisetsky are rink mates, and Mr. Nikiforov is my coach, who worked tirelessly with me this year to help me accomplish my goals. It was a joy to see my friends achieve so much this season. I know skating fans everywhere, but especially in Japan, also reflect my feelings._

_To have placed fourth at the World Championships is an achievement I had never tried to dream of; to know that Japan will send two skaters next year, because of my success, is almost overwhelming. I look forward to seeing my fellow skaters across Japan compete at Nationals, knowing they will be inspired by these two spots in the 2018 season._

_I will be carrying this pride and hope, when I take the ice for the gala skate. I have decided to once again perform my free skate program, Yuri on Ice. This season, this program has meant so much to me, and I hope fans at the TD Centre and watching from home will forgive me, for selfishly wishing to skate it a final time._

_Thank you again for your continued support._

Yuri read it three times, and then he threw his phone at the wall.

 

Victor tried to stay up and wait for Yuuri, but he was physically and emotionally exhausted, and somewhere around 1am, he tumbled into troubled and fitful sleep. He woke up alone shortly before dawn, where the only response to his text message at 11pm to Yuuri about leaving the arena last night still remained _I'll be awhile, see you later_. It was reminiscent of their early professional relationship – when Yuuri would work his issues out alone on the ice or in the dance studio and refused to let Victor in – and fear curled into his stomach.

He threw himself out of bed, angry at himself for sleeping so long. He pulled on Yuuri's sweatshirt, discarded across his suitcase, and stepped into a soft pair of jeans. James and Paul kept their car keys in a bowl by the front door, and Victor could take a set, he would drive to the practice rink and find Yuuri. He slipped out of the guest bedroom and tiptoed down the hall, careful not to wake his hosts, who's bedroom door was ajar. He moved as silently as he could on the stairs. Only, when he reached the foot of the staircase, Victor looked into the living room and found Yuuri was already home.

He was curled up on the sofa, wearing grey sweatpants and a Detroit Red Wings shirt, two articles of clothing that Victor had never seen before, and immediately understood to belong to James. His eyes were closed and his head was resting on James' lap, who sat on one end of the couch, carefully stroking his fingers over Yuuri's hair. James' other hand was clasped tightly in Paul's, who sat beside him in an armchair. On the coffee table were Yuuri's glasses, three discarded mugs, and the remains of a half-eaten sandwich; they'd tried to get Yuuri to eat.

"I think he's asleep now," James sighed. He lifted his hand from Yuuri's hair and rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes.

"I'll put him in our bed," Paul said, getting to his feet and leaning over to give James a gentle kiss. "That way we won't wake Victor."

James yawned and nodded. "I'm going to make coffee, do you want, like, five very strong cups?"

"Oh, yes please, my honey," Paul smiled. He lifted Yuuri off the couch like he was a rag doll. "He'll be out for maybe six hours if the melatonin does what it's supposed to, but we should be up for Victor."

Victor chose then to move, to step on a floorboard that creaked a little. His presence didn't startle either of them. "Good morning," James said softly, standing and gathering up the mugs with one hand, fingers slipped into the handles. "Would you like some coffee?"

Victor nodded in response, he didn't really trust himself to speak yet. He stood aside for Paul to move past him and watched him disappear up the stairs, carrying the thing Victor loved most in the world. James followed Paul out of the living room, carrying the dishes, and Victor trailed  after him into the kitchen, sat blankly at the table until James sat across from him and slid a mug of milky coffee towards him, taking a sip from his own cup.

He had rarely been alone with James; Victor was more comfortable with Paul, who was easy and friendly, who Victor felt he had more in common with. It was silly, because he had _Yuuri_ in common with James, but Victor hadn't quite learned yet how to reconcile his own relationship with Yuuri with the fact that James had known him for longer, and considered Yuuri a member of his family.

"When," Victor croaked, voice still rough with sleep. He cleared his throat to start again but James knew what he was asking.

"He woke us up a little bit after three. He took a taxi home and we had brought his wallet home with us in his bag."

Victor stared at his coffee cup, hoping he looked to James like he was deep in thought, but really, his mind was an empty buzz.

"He didn't want us to wake you up," James continued after a moment. He _tsked_ softly, shaking his head. "Sorry Victor. You know how unreasonable Yuuri can be when he's being stubborn."

Victor's lips quirked slightly. "I do," he agreed.

They sat in silence for another few minutes, until Victor picked up his coffee, took a deep drink, and finally looked at James. He was watching Victor with his ever-changing eyes; in the grey light of the kitchen they looked startlingly green. He was waiting for Victor to ask him what state Yuuri had been in, but Victor didn't like to do what was expected.

"What was he like," Victor asked, "when you met him?"

James smiled softly over the lip of his coffee cup. "He was shy; very polite. My mom loved him." He laughed, remembering. "I went away to college, and it was my first time home. I didn't come back for my first year, I was kind of terrified my parents would look at me and just _know_ , you know? But Angie wanted me to visit, so I came. My mom had told me they had signed up for the billeting program and were hosting a boy from Japan; she specifically said boy, so I figured, a kid, maybe someone thirteen at the most.  And I get out of my dad's car and my little sister is standing in the yard holding onto the hand of, well, this gorgeous guy. Like, the handsomest I'd ever seen. His eyelashes were even longer, back then."

Victor made a jealous little noise, and James laughed. "I'll show you some pictures, remind me. So this guy, he blushes when I shake his hand, but he absolutely _insists_ he carry my suitcase up to my room for me; he just lifted it up the stairs like it was empty, like, no trouble at all. And I was _dying_ because I was so worried about my parents but the universe had just deposited a dreamboat into my bedroom." James shook his head, smiling. "I don't think anyone in the world is strong enough to resist Yuuri."

"I knew of him, before I met him," Victor admitted, empathizing, even though that hadn't lessened Yuuri's eventual impact at all. "He knew skaters I knew, but I only competed against him a few times. But everyone talked about him; I knew he was beautiful."

Victor had first seen Yuuri when he was nineteen, probably a year into his time training in Detroit. That year, Victor had gone to a pre-Grand Prix Invitational in the States as a warm-up competition, where he was the only big name in the roster, but a few up-and-coming skaters were also competing who Yakov thought they should practice against.

Victor was known for appearing only right when he was due to skate, but he'd wanted to watch Christophe's free skate, because it was rumored the Swiss skater was going to debut the quad lutz that would propel him into the upper bracket that year. It was the skater after Chris who caught his attention though.

Yuuri had worn a completely black costume that year, a silken shirt and pants that draped beautifully, separated by a wide velvet sash to accentuate his narrow waist. His music had been all deep drums and high flutes, and Yuuri had drawn Victor in from his opening step sequence. He'd done a butterfly with so much height Victor had panicked he was going to break his leg, but he'd dropped into a tight and fast camel spin like it was easy. People after the competition would be talking about his combination spins and his hyper-extended Biellman, his flawless triple axel, but for Victor it was the way he moved between the elements, graceful and extended, always on time with the music. The way he held his hands, the emotive look in his eyes, and how each powerful stroke of his skates looked deceptively delicate. It had felt for Victor like falling in love, watching Yuuri.

"Who is that?" he'd asked Yakov, and his coach had just shrugged.

Victor would not compete against Yuuri again that season; would go on to win everything for a second year in a row, and he didn't think about the elegant stranger from the Invitational again. Not for a few years, until other skaters on the circuit started bringing him up. Completely unbeknownst to Yuuri, he had a reputation in the small community of International Figure Skating for being shy, sweet, and devastatingly attractive. No one knew who he liked to date, because you couldn't really be declarative of that kind of thing in the media unless you skated for Canada or the United States, and Yuuri was polite when people tried to flirt with him, but very private. Everyone was sighing over him. But Victor always missed him; they never faced off in any of same Grand Prix events, and their home countries meant the only competition they could potentially meet each other at was Worlds; where Daisuke Takahashi and Tatsuki Machida had represented Japan until they retired.

"He would have died if he'd known you thought he was beautiful," James grinned. " _The_ Victor Nikiforov."

Victor blushed uncomfortably into his mug, and James changed the subject. "How did you meet him? Yuuri wouldn't tell me…"

A smile unfurled across Victor's face, a genuine one. That had been the second time he'd competed against Yuuri, and he'd gotten his wish to talk to him, despite their rocky start over the commemorative photo. Victor had been so stunned by Yuuri's beauty he had said the first thing that popped into his head, but Yuuri had forgiven him later after the banquet.

"I danced with him," Victor admitted, "when he was drunk."

"Jesus," James groaned. "Yuu-yu…"

"He changed my life that night."

"He does that," James laughed, smiling in agreement.

 

After a heavy breakfast, James and Paul went back to bed, and Victor dozed on the sofa. When he woke up, Yuuri's glasses were still sitting on the coffee table, so Victor snuck quietly into the guest bedroom to leave them where Yuuri could find them on the nightstand. He hesitated for a moment, but he couldn’t resist; Victor leaned over Yuuri and brushed his hair away from his forehead. It was getting long, Yuuri hadn't cut it since the beginning of the season, and Victor liked it.

"Mmm… Victor?" Yuuri mumbled. His eyes blinked slowly a few times, but Yuuri had trouble keeping them open.

"It's me," he agreed softly.

Yuuri rolled onto his back and took his hands out from under the blankets; he reached for Victor and it was such an acute relief after his abrupt denial of Victor's touch and presence earlier, that Victor experienced that relief as a physical sensation. He twitched from the frisson and his eyes stung as Yuuri's hands tightened in his sweatshirt.

"Is that my shirt?"

"I borrowed it," Victor said, sitting on the bed. "You can sleep more if you want, sweetheart, it's only a little after one." He ran his fingers across Yuuri's cheek, under one of Yuuri's large and captivating dark eyes, which he'd managed to get open now and were watching Victor.

"Were you skating last night?" Victor asked him gently.

"No, I called… I was talking to my parents and Mari-nee-chan. I didn't realize how late it was."

Victor nodded. It didn't sound like a lie, and even if it was, Victor chose to believe him.

"They said to say congratulations," Yuuri said. "They're proud of you."

"Yuuri…"

The JSF wasn't going to fight it; Victor had read Yuuri's press statement. He wanted to beg him to reconsider, to lecture Yuuri until he finally got through to him, until Yuuri understood that he was _deserving_ of the gold, that he was the real World Champion, and he shouldn't let anyone try to take it away from him. Yuuri, who had spent hours holed up with officials from the ISU, who had no doubt believed every falsehood about his performance they'd given to justify his marks, who had let the JSF release that ridiculous statement when they should have gone to battle for him. He was worthy of better, and Victor, with his hands tied by the FFKKR, couldn't give it to him. It hurt, because Victor didn't want the medal and it wasn't fair.

Yuuri lifted his hands to cup Victor's face, and that was when Victor realized he was crying. Yuuri made a small soothing noise that was too much for Victor.

"You don't want to skate it," he accused, and Yuuri pulled Victor down onto the bed, into his arms, and Victor was weak so he went, let Yuuri tangle around him like he did when they were sleeping.

"I do," Yuuri said softly. "But I… I want to skate the program we made together – I didn't want that to be the last time."

Victor sighed into Yuuri's hair. He held him a bit closer, and after a time he realized that Yuuri was shaking.

"Vitya…" he breathed, his voice cracking.

"My Yuuri, my sweetheart," Victor cooed, burying his fingers in Yuuri's hair.

"I couldn't remember – the skate. I just knew it felt good… but we watched the recording with the referee."

Victor held his breath and waited. He was feeling very raw, but he was also patient, especially when it was what Yuuri needed.

"Tell me," Yuuri sobbed quietly. "Tell me my – my mistakes…"

Anger and sadness swirled through Victor, and also a surge of protectiveness that made him tighten his embrace. "There _weren't_ any," he said fiercely. "Whatever they told you – Yuuri, you were perfect. It was _beautiful_ , solnyshko."

Victor felt Yuuri nod against his shoulder, and Yuuri sighed then, almost in relief. He burrowed into Victor, and finally, after hours of being brave, he let Victor see him cry.

 

* * *

 

At the exhibition the following day, Yuuri wore black tights and a plain white dress shirt; there hadn't been time to get his costume cleaned and he wanted to wear something that would pick up the coloured lights at the gala. He slicked back his hair and shook some glitter over his head to compensate for the lack of embellishment.

When he took the ice after the Italian ice dancing team, sparkling slightly, it was to thunderous applause; so much that he waited in his starting position for a full minute before the sound technician could start his music. But when it did start, when Yuuri slowly raised his hands and his head, he smiled, wide and beautiful; he loved this program and he'd never performed it before when there was no pressure. The smile stayed on his face as he geared up for his toe loop combination, and grew when he landed it, and it was heartbreaking, for everyone watching, how fantastic his program was, how it was even more than it had been in competition when it was perfect, how it was filled with love, poured out onto the ice for everyone to see. It permeated his every move, through to his final quad flip and combination spin. Yuuri spun to a stop, pointing across the ice where he knew the object of his affections stood, and before his music had even ended, it was drowned out by cheering.

The audience started chanting his name, and things began to rain down onto the ice from the stands. It took him a minute, without his glasses, and in the black-dark of the gala, to realize what they were. Pieces of shiny foil, yellow paper, cardboard covered in glitter; cut into a circle and threaded on a ribbon or a piece of string. Large chocolate coins, plastic jewellery, in some cases, even actual medals; all of them gold. Yuuri stood at centre ice and smiled through the tears running down his cheeks, waving and bowing at the crowd in gratitude and disbelief, as hundreds of gold medals rained down on him like confetti.

 

It took a half hour to clear the ice, so long that Yuuri stayed out there to help the overwhelmed pages and the Russian pairs team got on the ice early as well to assist. They had to flood the ice again and it threw everyone's pre-skate stretches into complete disarray, but no one really minded. Yuri had to excuse himself to do a lap of the arena to keep his muscles warm, and after performing his own exhibition – the old one, that Lilia had choreographed, because after the GPF the ISU had issued new regulations stating only skaters invited to participate in the gala could be on the ice, and Yuri wouldn't skate Welcome to the Madness without Beka – Yuri needed to do his cool down stretches, so he missed everybody until Phichit took to the ice.

Yuri walked up to the boards and stood next to Victor, who was standing with Celestino. Victor did not appear to be in his costume yet, which struck Yuri as strange. He was wearing his red tracksuit and had a medal dangling around his neck that Yuuri had put there, which said "World's Best Dad" on it.

"Where's Katsudon?" he asked, and Victor smiled suspiciously.

Phichit was skating in a tight circle a centre ice, wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans. A siren noise filled the arena, coupled with Beyoncé counting down from five; it wasn't his usual exhibition music for this season, and a few excited cheers bubbled through the crowd. Phichit rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms, and when Beyoncé said "Let's move" and the beat started, a second spotlight opened at centre ice to reveal Yuuri, the two of them shaking their hips and clapping in unison, just like the music video. The crowd lost their minds, and Victor laughed.

"I've heard of this program," he told Celestino, "but I've never seen it."

"Yuuri choreographed it for Phichit their first year in Detroit together," Celestino said, "to help Phichit with his footwork." Out on the ice, Yuuri and Phichit whizzed by, feet cutting impossible figures before they both did the Dougie together to wild cheers. Yuuri laughed and reached for Phichit's hands, curling the Thai skater around in a spin before the two of them started to pick up speed around the rink.

"Yuuri said they did it at a few ice shows, but I could never find a video of it," Victor said. Beyoncé told everyone not to just stand there on the wall, and Yuuri and Phichit did a triple loop together, side by side.

"Probably because Phichit has hoarded them all somewhere at Yuuri's request," Celestino laughed. "It took us forever to convince Yuuri that it was good enough to be filmed." Yuuri and Phichit leapt up into death drops and then perfectly synchronized camel spins, and when they straightened out of them Yuuri pushed off with his other leg to do a series of upright spin transitions, a scratch to a two-foot to a layback to a haircutter and then finally a Biellman, all while Phichit skated around him pretending to be winded and made gestures like _can you believe this guy?_ It was well timed, because anyone without Yuuri's stamina probably needed that quick break, and Yuri didn't think anyone else would have been able to do a spin that crazy. Beyoncé was now yelling "Vamos, vamos" and Yuuri grabbed Phichit's hand again to do a quick salsa with him.

"I didn't know Katsudon could choreograph," Yuri admitted, because the program, as far as an exhibition for two non-pairs skaters went, was really good. The audience were clapping in time and screamed when, at opposite ends of the arena, Phichit and Yuuri both landed a salchow. Yuuri's was a quad, which gave him a bit more momentum on the way back to center ice. He caught Phichit's hand and spun them around before he lowered Phichit into a death spiral as the music slowed down.

"There's a lot people don't know about Yuuri," Celestino said with a small smile. Beyoncé once again insisted they not remain on the wall, and Yuuri did a triple axle, Phichit a double in his wake, before the two of them launched into another ice-biting step sequence.

"It's a mistake to underestimate him," Celestino continued, "One I look forward to seeing the ISU pay for next season." He set his hand on Victor's shoulder, and Victor nodded. Beyoncé was now instructing everyone which way to run, and Phichit and Yuuri did spins in the direction she indicated. When she told everyone to wave the American flag, the crowd erupted in cheers while Yuuri and Phichit shot across the ice in matching lunges, swishing their extended arm back and forth over their heads.

Celestino gave Victor's shoulder a squeeze, but he was looking at Yuri. "Phichit wouldn't be the skater he is today if he hadn't spent so much time training with Yuuri. It will be interesting to see who he inspires next season." The song was telling everyone to cool off, but Yuuri instead pushed deep into the ice with powerful strokes and landed a quad flip, while Phichit did a triple on the other side of the rink. They circled back to centre ice in time to hit their final positions, back to back and heads snapping in opposite directions when Beyoncé ended the song with a final shout of "Hey!". They collapsed against each other in a fit of laughter, hugging, and the crowd was on its feet, chanting Yuuri's name again. They had no more medals to throw but flowers pelted the ice, and Yuuri and Phichit took turns spinning each other out in a pairs bow to each corner of the arena. They were still laughing when they skated up to the boards, and Yuuri grinned at Victor, pulling him in close by the ribbon of his novelty medal.

"Can I have the next dance?" he asked, and Victor beamed at him.

 

There was a quiet murmur of anticipation, when Victor took the ice in his Stammi Vincino costume. He'd been skating it as his exhibition for the season as well, and though he and Yuuri had only performed their duet once at the GPF, fans had not stopped hoping for a repeat performance over the season. Victor had wanted to do it at the 4CC, but Yuuri had balked at the idea of the €5,000 fine the ISU would hit Victor with for skating in an exhibition when he was not eligible to participate. Victor had let it go, because Yuuri had won gold, and the exhibition rightfully belonged to Yuuri; a showcase of his talents as the champion.

Here at Worlds, however, there were two champions.

Victor started alone, raising his face to the roof of the arena, his arms yearning, always reaching in this program, for something he had believed to be completely out of his grasp. He could do this routine on autopilot, and he had, for most of last season, until Worlds when he had been desperate for one person to hopefully reach back. _Stay close to me, and never leave_. He was once again at Worlds and skating Stammi Vincino, feeling a little raw and a little heartbroken, and as he landed his quad flip he almost believed that he would just keep reaching, that the last year and a half had been some elaborate and exquisite fever dream, and Katsuki Yuuri just a benevolent spirit who'd taken pity on him and haunted his imagination. But then the duet soared into the arena, and a hand clasped around Victor's, a little bit smaller, with slightly thicker fingers, and so, so warm.

"Found you," Yuuri said, and he set his other hand on Victor's chest, over his heart, that softly possessive gesture that crumbled Victor into helpless pieces.

The crowd was screaming in excitement, but for Victor there was only Yuuri, beautiful in his blue costume, sparkling under all the gala lights like the diamond he was. They turned into their first lift, Yuuri looking down at him and spinning all around him, never taking his eyes off Victor as he dipped Yuuri on the ice, as they spun together. Yuuri cupped Victor's cheek and it was different than the GPF exhibition; it had said _I'm here_ but now, it was comforting: _It's okay_. They went into their second lift, and before they separated for their step sequence Yuuri squeezed Victor's shoulder. Just the lightest touch, but there. _It's okay._

Their skates carved sharply across the ice – it was so much louder, with two sets – and then they were together again, and Yuuri was spinning Victor, but he was closer somehow, touching Victor more, things that should have been glancing lingered. Yuuri lifted Victor, his arms tight around Victor's waist as he spun them around, and Victor felt safe, secure, loved. He looked down at Yuuri and his eyes were sparkling, his lip quivering with something that wasn't the strain of bearing Victor's weight. Victor was supposed to hold his free arm gracefully aloft for this, but instead he lowered it to slowly brush the back of his hand against the side of Yuuri's face. _It's okay._

They had to separate then, for another jump – a triple loop, triple toe combination. They had to give each other a lot of space for safety, because neither of them were experienced pairs skaters, and when they'd come up with this choreography, Yuuri had a minor panic attack over the thought of potentially hitting Victor if he somehow botched his landings. It was silly, because Yuuri hit this combination every time, and Victor hated the distance most especially now, when he wanted Yuuri close. It made him reach for Yuuri in something like desperation when the choreography called instead for a simple joining of their hands, and Yuuri clutched him back, letting Victor pull him in. Victor tucked Yuuri protectively against his body, their hands still joined and Victor's arm firm around Yuuri's waist as they did their camel spin; and something was going awry – not in the elements of the program, which they were doing perfectly, but in the way Victor felt. He pressed his face into the back of Yuuri's neck as they spun, felt Yuuri thread their fingers together on his hip. _It's not okay Yuuri; you don't have to be okay._

There was a lift next, Victor held Yuuri against him with an arm slung around his waist, Yuuri's long legs extending out before them, one bent like he was a graceful swan. Yuuri had one arm around Victor's shoulders for support and he was supposed to lift the other out and tilt his head back, to accentuate the twirling movement Victor was making across the ice, but he didn't. His hand cupped the side of Victor's face, and he set his forehead against Victor's, pressed his nose to Victor's like he might kiss him. _I'm not okay, but I've got to be strong._

Victor made a noise that was almost like a whimper, and Yuuri did kiss him then; the softest, briefest, brush of their lips as Victor set him back on the ice. They spun apart, space and speed for them to both do a flying sit spin, and Victor's lips burned; he wanted Yuuri in his arms, wanted to kiss Yuuri until it was better, wanted to put each of those medals that had fluttered down onto the ice around Yuuri's neck and top them off with the World Championship gold. He wanted to feel braver than he did. _I'm not sure how to do this. I don't know how to love someone, but I love you so much._

He's never told Yuuri, because he knew it was not a thing said lightly in Japanese, and he had told himself it was because he didn't want to make Yuuri feel uncomfortable but really it was because he was scared. The last time he'd told someone he loved them they'd laughed in his face and told him not to be ridiculous. Artem had broken his heart without a second thought, trampled it and spat on it and then left – and Yuuri was _not_ Artem, the way he felt about Yuuri and the way he knew Yuuri felt about him was much deeper and more profound, and he knew it was actually love this time – but a skater's heart was made of glass, and Victor didn't want his to shatter again.

Yuuri reached for Victor's hand for the final step sequence, spinning Victor around him in the woman's traditional position in an ice dance, presenting Victor like a beautiful prize. His arm circled Victor's waist and for a moment he pressed his face against Victor's shoulder blade. _Please. Please stay close to me, I need you._

The program ended with them in each other's arms, but that wasn't nearly enough. When the music stopped Victor pulled Yuuri almost roughly into a tighter embrace, and Yuuri went willingly, his shoulders shaking and his breath hiccupping against Victor's chest.

"I'm here. Yuuri, I'm here sweetheart."

"I know, I know… Vitya –"

"You're not alone. You _never_ have to feel alone."

Yuuri nodded, and then he drew a breath that was deep and clear, reassuring enough for Victor to pull away, to cup Yuuri's face in his hands.

"Are you okay?" he asked, rubbing Yuuri's tears into his cheeks with his thumbs.

Yuuri cupped Victor's elbows and smiled shyly. He nodded again and then Victor leaned forward and kissed him, too quick and too brief, on his forehead. The audience, already cheering loudly, erupted into high-pitched screams. Yuuri smiled at Victor, a slightly bigger one, and that was good. Victor was going to get that wide smile back on his face if he had to kiss him a hundred times. It was a sacrifice he was _more_ than willing to make.

"I think I've made some of your fans jealous," Yuuri said, lowering their hands, and Victor snorted.

"Please, those are _your_ fans, solnyshko, and they are clearly jealous of _me_." The smile grew larger still, and Victor returned it. "Now, let me show you off to this audience like the gorgeous thing you are, yes? They can look, but only I can touch."

"Stop, Victor!" Yuuri laughed, Victor's favorite music. He let Victor spin him into a bow to all four sides of the rink, the two of them waving as the crowd once again started chanting Yuuri's name.

"See, your fans," Victor said, as they skated hand-in-hand to the boards to turn the ice over to the Chinese pairs team. Mila was waiting there with their skate guards, because as the ladies gold medalist, she would skate next in the final exhibition performance.

"What do you say Yuuri," she smiled, "let's go out there next and do a throw jump!"

"Ah," Yuuri scratched at the back of his head, clearly in a dilemma. "I suppose… I'm a little tired Mila, but I could –"

"I'm kidding Yutenka it's okay!" she laughed, but then she winked at him. "Let's make a program when we get home! An exhibition for when we win next year, yes?"

Yuuri stared at Mila for a beat, and Victor didn't know why but his stomach felt like it dropped momentarily out of his body, his ears ringing faintly. He frowned and opened his mouth to tell Mila that Yuuri was going to skate his exhibitions with Victor _only_ , thank you, but then Yuuri smiled and nodded.

"Mm," he hummed. "It's a promise."

Victor couldn't really explain it, but for some reason Yuuri's answer made him feel relieved.

 

* * *

 

The air changed drastically at the banquet when Victor and Yuuri arrived, nearly an hour late. It had already felt more forced than usual, but Yuri felt like the air stilled and cooled, like it became quieter and then suddenly louder. Every eye followed them as they walked into the room; Victor plucked two flutes of champagne off a tray and followed after Yuuri as he made a beeline for Phichit. Standing across the room next to Otabek, Yuri took a drink of his ginger ale. The bartender had even put lime wedges in their drinks for them, so they wouldn't have to feel like complete children.

"Look at him," Yuri said, sticking his chin out at Yuuri, because Yuri _was_ looking at Yuuri; his suit today was a deep, rich, almost-black purple, fitted too well to have been picked out by anyone but Victor, and the pants were tapered and cut to sit cuffed above his ankles, bared and on display above black loafers. Yuri hated that he knew Yuuri did not like to wear socks past his ankles if he didn't have to, and that Victor was obsessed with his feet. He hated that Yuuri looked _amazing_ – his hair neatly combed up off his forehead and to the side, his glasses absent – and that his dove grey shirt was a subtle call to Victor's pewter coloured wool suit just as Victor's mauve one was supposed to match Yuuri. Phichit said something that made Yuuri set his hand on the Thai skater's arm, and smile wide with laughter. Yuri growled.

"Why isn't he angry?" he hissed.

"He is angry, Yuri," Beka said quietly, and Yuri spun on him, but the look on his face as he watched Yuuri across the room made Yuri pause.

"Of course he's angry," he continued. "But Katsuki does not fight the same way you do." He turned to give Yuri the barest hint of a smile. "He is not a soldier the way you are a soldier."

Yuri frowned. He wanted Yuuri to look put-out, or at least, like he was wilting. It felt wrong for him to look like he was enjoying himself in a room full of people who were pitying him. Yuri said as much, and Otabek's eyes sharpened.

"That's beneath you," he said, and plucked Yuri's empty glass from his hand. "I will bring you another soda."

He took off before Yuri could say anything, his words burning in Yuri's chest. There were many sharp and cutting things he could have said to Otabek in response, and had he been anyone else, Yuri would have grabbed his wrist and spat them into his face – but it was Beka, and the words stung, hurt more because of the gentle way he'd said them. He stared wide-eyed after Beka's retreating back, his mind going fuzzy, and didn't notice Victor and Yuuri until they were practically next to him.

"Ah, Yurio, I haven't said congratulations yet," Yuuri chimed. "So, congratulations!"

Victor was nodding and smiling slightly, and Yuri was painfully presented with the fact that while Yuuri was wearing a bowtie and Victor a necktie, they were made out of the exact same fabric.

"Thanks," he said, a little bit shortly, because he needed to find Beka and apologize though he didn't know what for, and also because he didn't know if he could do this, have this conversation with Yuuri.

"I liked your exhibition too, although, I think Welcome to the Madness is still my favorite," Yuuri smiled.

Yuri's breath caught and snagged in his throat, and it must have shown on his face, because Victor's smile turned down at the corners. "Yurio," he started, even as Yuri choked out "Katsudon…"

"It feels more you," Yuuri continued, like he was immune to the obvious distress of the two people with him. "You can tell when you skate it that you really enjoy it! Something you should think about when you plan your exhibition for next season…"

"Choreograph it for me," Yuri blurted, surprising Victor, Yuuri and himself. It felt like his face was burning and he grit his teeth.

"Oh," Yuuri blushed. "I don't–"

"The program you did with Phichit," Yuri cut over him, because he was determined to change the subject and he'd already dug himself into this hole, "That program was killer, Katsudon. Don't you _dare_ say no, my exhibition has to be the best next season!"

Yuuri blinked at him, and Victor laughed. "Mm, because you'll be skating it so much, Yurio?" he winked and set his pointer finger against his lips. Victor was going to say something next that was clever and mean, and Yuri thought Victor could go to hell.

"Of course I will, asshole! I'll beat both of you next season–" And then his teeth clicked shut, because, fuck, had he really just said that to Yuuri?

"I look forward to it," Yuuri laughed, and Yuri was pretty sure his face was currently on fire. Yuuri held out his hand, the one with the ring on it. "It's a promise then, think about some music you'd like, and we can talk about it."

Yuri looked away as he shook Yuuri's hand; he couldn't bear to see that pleasantly squishy face of his. "Sure, thanks," he mumbled, and was undyingly grateful that Beka chose to return then, carrying Yuri's ginger ale, which he promptly snatched from Beka's hands and buried his face in.

"Katsuki," Beka nodded. "Mr. Nikiforov."

Victor snorted. "Please, you're making me feel ancient."

"You _are_ ancient," Yuri muttered, and Victor shot him a warning look.

"Ah, Otabek, have you met Victor?" Yuuri asked, and then he huffed. "No of course, you met him last year–" This part was said almost to himself, so Beka, who had spent an entire evening in Barcelona having dinner with both Victor _and_ Yuuri, answered very smoothly.

"Only formally, so, it's nice to meet you, Victor."

"Likewise," Victor said, extending his hand for Beka to shake firmly. He smiled secretly and winked at Beka. "And have you met Yuuri?"

"We did a camp together, in Canada with Brian Orser," Yuuri said. "Ummm... three years ago? I think."

That was news to Yuri, but it was more surprising when Beka nodded and confided: "Katsuki taught me how to land a triple axel."

"Oh no! You were landing it fine Otabek, I just tweaked a few things for you," Yuuri's eyes darted over to Victor, who had a bemused look on his face. "Just a bit more power through his core... That's it really..."

"It completely changed my jumping, for the better. I couldn't do a single quad before Katsuki's help." Beka smiled slightly. "It's what got me on the podium last year, and into the Grand Prix."

Yuuri flushed in embarrassment, and Victor was beaming. Yuri hid his face in his ginger ale again as Beka nodded to all of them. "I should speak to a few sponsors," he said delicately, "Please excuse me."

Otabek drifted away, leaving Yuri once again alone with Victor and Yuuri. He sort of desperately wished he knew more people. But then, someone Yuri did know was walking up to them now, he could see the General Director of the FFKKR approaching in the gap between Victor and Yuuri, and that was worse than being alone. He stood straighter; "Victor," he said, but that was all the warning he had time to give.

"Victor, my boy," the Director boomed in Russian, still a few feet away. Victor's eyes widened and his jaw set, and Yuri watched him turn, step forwards and slightly to the right, so that he was positioned in front of Yuuri. He could only see half of the Director now, who smiled and reached out to clasp Victor's hand. "There you are!"

Yuri couldn't see Victor's face, but he could guess the look on it from the tone of Victor's voice as he shook hands. "Always a pleasure, Director," he said, tight and polite, and Yuri saw Yuuri frown.

"A masterful showing, as always, Victor!" he beamed. "The Federation was somewhat worried, given your extra-curricular activities this year..."

Anger boiled up and over in Yuri, because really, Yuuri was standing right there and it looked like he had understood, and Yuri was about to jump past Victor and interject, but Yuuri's hand closed abruptly, painfully almost, around his wrist and jerked him back. "Yurio!" he hissed.

Yuri gaped up at him; he always seemed to forget how much taller than him Yuuri was – and he recognized the look on Yuuri's face from the doorway of the men's washroom after the free skate. He hadn't been able to read it then, but he understood it now: _I can't believe, after everything I have been through, that I now have to put up with your shit, too_. His eyes stung and Yuuri's grip loosened and slid down until he was holding Yuri's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"We're looking forward to your performance at the Olympics next year, Victor," the Director was saying.

"Are you really," Victor said flatly, and Yuuri's hand let go.

"We all are," Yuuri agreed quietly. He brushed past Victor, and Yuri watched his hand rest for the briefest of reassuring moments on the small of Victor's back. It made Victor straighten, as Yuuri bowed respectfully. "Forgive me for interrupting," he said politely in softly accented Russian, "as I don't believe we have been introduced." He stood tall then, his chin lifted.

_Of course he's angry, but Katsuki doesn't fight the same way you do._

"This is my skater, Katsuki Yuuri," Victor said in English, his voice bursting with pride, and Yuri felt it rising in himself too. He was aware that nearly everyone in the room appeared to be watching this exchange, from the corner of his eye Yuri saw Christophe Giacometti walking towards them. "Yuuri, this is the General Director of the Russian Figure Skating Federation."

Yuuri bowed again, and the Director apparently hadn't noticed everyone staring, because his eyes narrowed. "Of course, we are all familiar with the skater from Japan," he said brusquely, continuing to speak Russian. "Congratulations on your fourth place finish, your highest ever, I believe."

"Place at Worlds?" Yuuri asked in English, frowning slightly, "Yes, that's right. In 2015 I was seventh. But I have placed higher at other events, if that's what you were unclear about." He bowed again, but then appeared to have thought of something else. "Ah, or do you mean my marks? I set the record this year, so not that, of course." He turned to Victor and arched a questioning eyebrow. "Sorry, perhaps I have misunderstood, my Russian is not very good."

"I think you understood just fine," Victor said. He set his arm around Yuuri's shoulders and turned to face him, and Yuri caught sight of Victor's smile and the slight pink blush on his nose. "Did you know, Mr. Piseev, that Yuuri speaks two languages fluently? And also a second dialect of Japanese! He's been picking up Russian so quickly!"

The back of Yuuri's neck flushed, and the Director frowned. "Victor, I was hoping you and I could sit down tomorrow, to discuss your plans for next season... I intend to speak also with the JSF–"

"Yuuri, mon char!" Christophe barrelled into Yuuri, kissing him on both cheeks. "Yuuuuuri, my sponsor at Kuboraum is _dying_ to talk to you, do you have a minute?"

"Oh, um..." Yuuri looked at Victor, who nodded. "Yes?"

"Splendid!" Christophe dragged Yuuri away, taking the gaze of most of the room with him, and he chuckled when Yuuri asked him quietly "What's a Kuboraum?"

Yuri looked down into his ginger ale. He was trapped between the wall and behind Victor's broad back, and the General Director hadn't yet noticed him, but he would the second Yuri moved. Sometimes it was helpful to be slight and small. Without Yuuri there, Victor had no need to be falsely polite.

"I won't be able to meet with you, Valentin Nikolaevich. I will decide my plans for next season on my own."

"You can't be intending to continue on as a coach next year –"

"Until the ISU mandates otherwise, or Katsuki Yuuri fires me, I intend to do just that," Victor cut him off firmly.

"Enough. The Federation worked very hard this year, to uphold our legacy while you were off wasting time."

Yuri flushed hotly, angry and affronted. _He_ had worked hard... and the legacy was his to create, not maintain. He was going to surpass Victor because Victor was the best, and Yuri was going to be _better_ , not for Russia but for himself.

"Coaching Yuuri is not a waste of time." Victor said, and there was something in his voice that was barely contained.

"You may think your actions have no consequences, but the public in Russia does not take kindly to your liaisons with a competitor, and if you continue it, they will turn on you."

Yuri hissed quietly. Yakov had forbid them all from telling Victor about it, that after the viral video from Taipei there had been enormous backlash in the press and on some fan forums – everyone was angry that Victor had taken time off from preparing for Worlds to fraternize with a skater from a rival country at an event he wasn't even competing in – and then of course, Mila swore him to secrecy about the brick that had been lobbed through the window of Victor's fourth floor apartment while she was dog-sitting. But Victor had won World's anyway, so that had likely blown over. In fact, Yuri was looking forward to getting on the message boards and seeing all those people eat their words.

"If Russia wishes me to continue to win medals for them, then they will have to abide by my choices," Victor said, his voice returning to a lightness Yuri almost believed. "Yuuri is an important part of my growth as a skater; he is _not_ a distraction."

"Is he not?" The Director shook his head. "We have been lucky this season, that the scoring was close and we could make it work. Next year, that may not be possible."

"Make what work?" Victor's voice came out like ice, and Yuri shivered. He didn't think he wanted to hear the rest of this conversation, but he was trapped, immobilized by the chill creeping up his spine.

He waved Victor's question off, fixing Victor with a knowing look. "You need to understand, Victor. Keep your pet project, fine, but the Federation will not allow anything less than perfect from you. You are an investment on which we expect returns, and we do not like to be disappointed. It will be unfortunate if we have to make you understand this a second time." He left then, and Victor stood perfectly still for a moment, before he made a sharp little noise, turning to face the wall and scrubbing a hand through his hair. He noticed, immediately, that Yuri was still there.

"Yurio..." he gasped, "how long – did you hear?"

"What does he mean? Did they… Are my medals… " Yuri bit his lip, trying not to think about all the whispers in the international media; the rumors about the inflated scoring at the GPF for his free skate. The sneers about his tanos and rippons, his lack of artistry compared to Yuuri, as if he hadn't laid everything he had out there on the ice.

"Am I a fraud?" Yuri whispered. He looked at Victor desperately, and Victor's blue eyes softened, making Yuri go completely cold. Victor set his hands on Yuri's shoulders.

"I will fix this, Yura, yes? Don't worry."

Yuri nodded numbly, and Victor squeezed his shoulders. "I'm going to fix this. Can you stay here? I will get Otabek."

He nodded again, because he didn't really think he could form words. As soon as Victor left him, Yuri stumbled to the nearest table. It had been abandoned with two nearly full bottles of wine on it, and Yuri set his ginger ale down carefully so he didn't spill on the table cloth. He took both bottles of wine with him as he slipped unnoticed out a side door. It took Beka over an hour to find him, and when he did, Yuri was sprawled on the carpet against an armchair in an abandoned lounge three floors up; the empty wine bottles tucked under the skirt of the chair in an attempt to hide them.

"Yuri?"

Otabek looked a little blurry, kneeling next to him, and Yuri wondered if this was how the world looked to Katsudon without his glasses. He laughed once, shortly, and it turned into a loud hiccup. Beka was holding a yellow rectangle out towards him that looked suspiciously familiar.

"Can you unlock your phone? I'll call Yakov for you."

"No!" Yuri shouted. He slapped the rectangle out of Beka's hand, sending it skittering a few feet away. "No Yakov. No Victor!"

Beka reached over and retrieved the phone, pulling his own from his pocket. "I'll text Katsuki then," he hedged.

"NO!"

That was possibly the worst option of all, squishy sweet-faced Yuuri humming at him, carrying him to his room. Handsome Yuuri in his beautiful suit who everyone unfairly wanted to hate, because he belonged to Victor and they didn't. Yuuri who was so kind, who nobody really deserved, but somehow he was there, doing his best in the face of a terrible situation. Yuri's hiccups picked up speed and intensity, and Beka sat down next to him, throwing an arm over his shoulders.

"Okay. Just relax Yuri."

His voice rumbled against Yuri, and it shook a sigh out of him. "I'm a fraud," he said. "And you think lowly of me."

"What? Yuri, I don't –"

"Victor's going to fix it!" He promised, almost desperate. "Next season, I'll... You'll see Beka, I'll make you proud. Proud to be my friend."

"Yuri."

He burst into tears then, and Beka curled him up into his side, making Yuri sob harder. Otabek let Yuri cry himself out and fall asleep, and then he texted Katsuki to let someone know where Yuri was.

 

Yuuri closed the door of their hotel room with a sigh, slipping off his loafers with a small pang of regret. He had adamantly refused to let Victor buy him something so frivolous as shoes lined with fur, until Victor had slipped one onto his foot. They felt like clouds and Yuuri would have worn them everywhere if wearing shoes inside wasn't grievously wrong. He could hear water running in the bathroom, which meant Victor had made it back from the banquet. Yuuri pressed his feet into his slippers and walked into the suite, yawning and pulling absently at his bowtie. Victor had tied it for him, and he wasn't quite sure how it came undone; he'd been too distracted by Victor's reassuring little kisses earlier to pay much attention to what his fingers had been doing.

He sat on the edge of the bed and then slumped backwards across it, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fist. He needed to take his contacts out. The water shut off in the bathroom and Yuuri's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and unlocked it without looking at the notification; and the phone opened on his message app.

_Paul's shift got switched, brunch tomorrow, before you fly out in the evening? Bring Phichit!_

_Yes,_ Yuuri typed, because the idea of a fancy American breakfast really appealed to him right now. _Text Phichit, Victor and I are calling it an early night._

_Ohho, well goodnight young lovers!_ A winking face. _Text me in the morning._

Yuuri sighed again and flung his arm over his face. After misplacing Victor for almost the entire banquet, and then an hour trying to wrangle a very drunk teenager safely to bed, he was nowhere near in the mood for that kind of evening. Yurio was upset, too, but he wouldn't tell Yuuri why. Perhaps something to do with Otabek, although Otabek seemed to be at a loss as well. Yuuri would wait, give Yurio time and space to travel back home and get settled. He was always the most open when the two of them were alone at barre practice, so Yuuri would feel him out then.

The bathroom door swung inwards and Victor emerged; Yuuri heard his footsteps on the carpet and smelled the familiar smell of his night cream.

"Sweetheart you will crinkle like that," he admonished softly, and Yuuri groaned quietly, hauling himself up off the bed. He tossed his phone down and shrugged out of his jacket. Letting Victor dress him up like his own personal living doll made Yuuri feel elegant and sophisticated, but it could occasionally get on his nerves. Like when he was tired, hadn't gotten a chance to dance with his fiancé, and didn't care about creases in a suit that was bound for the dry cleaners.

"Are you done in the bathroom? I need to take out my contacts." Yuuri pulled fruitlessly again at his bowtie. Victor picked his glasses up off the desk and pressed them into Yuuri's hand, pushing his other one away gently and somehow magically releasing the tie around his neck. He undid the top two buttons of Yuuri's shirt and pressed a light kiss to his cheek.

"It's all yours," he breathed softly, brushing past him towards the bed, and Yuuri felt his ribs tighten. He bit his lip and locked himself in the bathroom, where Victor had already thoughtfully set out his pyjamas on the counter. Yuuri ran his hand over the neatly folded t-shirt, sweatshirt and cotton pants; each item soft and comfortable, and wondered how he'd managed to become so belovedly cared for. He took out his contacts, brushed his teeth, and carefully removed his clothes, folding the trousers along the pressed crease. He washed up and pulled on the pyjamas; Victor always set their hotel rooms a little cooler and Yuuri felt it more now, after being used to James and Paul's cozy guest bedroom.

When he exited the bathroom, Victor was talking on his phone to someone in Russian; Yuuri heard his name and Yurio's. He moved quietly around the room, putting away his things while Victor finished his call.

"Was that Yakov?" Yuuri asked, rolling up his belt.

"Lilia," Victor corrected. He stood up from the bed and plucked up Yuuri's trousers, ducking into the closet to add them to the garment bag hanging there, which muffled his voice slightly. "She says thank you, for taking care of Yurio."

"There's always one, at every banquet," Yuuri smiled. "Someone took care of me in Sochi, I needed to pay it forward."

Victor closed the closet door and fixed him with an uncertain stare. "Not someone; _me_."

Yuuri felt his face heat; he adjusted his glasses and suddenly found folding his dress shirt to be the most interesting thing in the world. Yuuri did not remember very much from that night, just the decision to have a few glasses of champagne bookended by waking up in his hotel room fully if haphazardly dressed, caked in alcohol and dried sweat, with a splitting headache. There had been a glass of water and two painkillers on the nightstand next to his glasses, and he'd always assumed Celestino put them there. "You've never… ah – You've never said what happened that night…"

"Do you want me to tell you?"

"No!" Yuuri rounded on Victor, in time to see Victor's face fall and to realize he'd spoken too abruptly. "Not now," he amended, softer. "I want to hear it, Vitya, but just – right now I'd like to go to bed. I'm tired. I skated three programs today, and I talked to so many sponsor people… Can we just sleep? I didn't get to dance with you – I just want your arms around me."

The end of Victor's nose could turn pink for any number of reasons, if he was flustered or embarrassed, angry or happy, but only Yuuri had the pleasure of being the reason his cheeks turned pink too. Yuuri knew there would be a matching flush across his breastbone, underneath his t-shirt. He nodded shyly at Yuuri and turned the bedside lamp on, and while Yuuri plugged in their phones and got under the covers, Victor walked across the room to turn off the over-head light. Yuuri took off his glasses and set them on the nightstand, rolling over just in time to watch a slightly out of focus Victor remove his robe, and turn off the lamp. He listened to the rustling blankets and let Victor find him in the dark; made himself loose and malleable, so Victor could position Yuuri's head on his shoulder and tuck it under his chin.

"The next time we sleep in a bed," Victor said against his hair, "Makkachin will be with us."

"Mm. It will be so nice to be home." Yuuri tangled their legs together and kissed the flat plane of Victor's skin. "Goodnight, my Vitya," he murmured, yawning, as he set his palm over Victor's heart.

Victor pressed a kiss into his hair, and whispered something in Russian Yuuri didn't catch. Victor was warm and Yuuri felt very cozy under the blankets, relaxed and safe. He let himself let go of Boston, and thought, blissfully, about going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another unedited chapter!
> 
> I have it also on good authority that if you start the music for Phichit's gala song at the same time it appears in the story, it should sync up pretty closely. Was this entire au an excuse to get Yuuri and Phichit skating to Beyonce? I'll never tell, chickadees.
> 
> please feel free to come yell at me on tumblr, where I post lots of soft pink things and meadows under the same name.


	3. Victurri

Victor woke up on his first morning back in St. Petersburg alone. It took him a moment to register; Yuuri was not beside him and Makka was not sprawled out in his vacated spot. Victor had spent nearly half of their layover in Munich listening to Yuuri's elaborate plans for his first off day – sleeping until noon, a lengthy bath, and eating whatever he felt like while playing his new Nintendo Switch – so when he rolled over and noted that by the clock on his nightstand it was only 8am, Victor frowned and got out of bed. 

"Yuuri?"

Victor called down the hallway but there was no answer, and when he checked the bathroom, no one was there. He pulled his robe on and went barefoot to the living room, where neither Yuuri or Makkachin were waiting to greet him, only a pink piece of notepaper on the coffee table.

_Took Makka to run, then going to private rink. Meet us!_

It was written in careful and exacting cyrillic, and in lieu of signing it, Yuuri had drawn a small chubby version of himself in a track suit and the dog, running across the bottom of the page towards the rink. Just in case his Russian was incorrect. There were a couple of hearts chasing them, and Victor pressed the note to his chest for a moment; it was the most adorable thing to ever grace his coffee table. He carried it to the kitchen and put it on the fridge. Yuuri had turned on the samovar and made tea concentrate already, and sitting next to it was an oil-stained paper bag containing four syrniki that Yuuri must have gotten from the café two blocks over.

"What time did you get up, sweetheart?" he mumbled, fishing a mug out of the cupboard. The sryniki were cool, and the café opened at 7am; Yuuri's blue teapot and a mug were bone dry where he'd left them sitting upside-down on a tea towel. Victor carried his breakfast back to the bedroom and picked up his phone to send a quick text.

_Thank you for breakfast! I can get to the rink in an hour?_

While he waited for an answer, Victor ate his syrniki and scrolled through social media. Yuuri's name was no longer trending on twitter, but the hashtag _#GoldforKatsuki_ was still getting some traction. Victor checked his email, where it appeared the fruits of a few of his closed door meetings during the banquet had quickly come to bear. Under near identical messages from Skate Canada and the USFS, was an email from Mooroka about setting up an interview with Yuuri and Victor both for TV Asahi. Victor was typing out a forwarding email to his agent with both thumbs when the response from Yuuri pinged at the top of his phone. A snowflake, dog, and figure skate emoji, and _I'll be warmed up by then_.

 

When he stepped out into the arena, Makka wriggling beside him, Victor had every intention of teasing Yuuri. His finger was halfway to his lips, the _what happened to my lazy dime a dozen skater_ ready, when the sharp _shack_ of what could only be a perfect landing forced his eyes to widen. On the ice, Yuuri set his free leg to push off, and he did two impossibly quick laps, the second leading him in to centre ice for a clean triple lutz. He let himself drift, arms wide, gaging the distance of his landing. When he came to a rest, he nodded to himself, deep in thought.

"Good morning!" Victor called in Japanese, and Yuuri turned towards him, smiling wide.

"Victor! Good morning! Did you bring your skates?" Yuuri started skating towards the AV stand where his skate guards, water bottle and glasses sat waiting; Yuuri's phone was plugged into the speaker.

"I did," Victor nodded, handing Yuuri his water.

Yuuri put on his glasses and took a drink. "Put them on and come out here with me," he said, and Victor raised one eyebrow.

"Isn't it the coach who says that?" he asked playfully, and Yuuri blushed.

"Yes, but, Victor-coach, I need your help."

"Oh?"

Yuuri skated backwards a few feet, and his body seemed to snap to attention, his hands balling at his sides. It had taken a long time for Yuuri to feel comfortable enough not to bow to Victor every time he took a direction, made a mistake, or had a request; the last time had been the night before the free skate of the GPF, and Victor felt his heart leap into his throat.

_Don't give up Yuuri, don't do this…_

"I want the lutz," Yuuri said, his head inclined towards the ice.

Victor blinked at him. He had been prepared for something else, and now all he could manage was a breathy "What?"

Yuuri bit his lip and looked up, but the rink lights were reflecting off his glasses and Victor couldn't see his expression. "I know you thought I should wait until I had all my other jumps – but I'm landing the flip and the sal consistently in practice! I'm never going to be consistent in competition, you know that, so–"

"You are," Victor said softly. "You are consistent in competition, Yuuri."

Yuuri flushed and looked away, and Victor could now see the way his eyes were sparkling. "In two competitions," he corrected, and Victor resisted the urge to argue. He was going to spend his life wrestling whatever it was in Yuuri's head that thought he wasn't good enough, whatever it was that was completely blind to the fact that Yuuri was unstoppable, dedicated, talented, amazing. It was a fight Victor was determined to win, but sometimes it was more productive, when Yuuri half-conceded, to let it lie. Especially when he was asking for a challenge, when his eyes were shining like they were now. 

"The lutz then," Victor said, and Yuuri nodded.

"I want to do all the jumps you can do," he said, "and I want to put all of them in my free this year."

"Another four quad free; yes," Victor agreed. "Let me get my skates on and warm up?"

But Yuuri hadn't finished yet. "A five quad free."

Victor blinked at him, confused, and Yuuri took off his glasses and set them on the barrier. He turned abruptly and took off across the ice, deep strong crossovers before he leapt into the air in front of Victor on his back outside edge, turned four tight rotations, and then dropped into a slightly wobbly landing. A quad loop. He shook his head, but there was a small smile on his face.

"It's not perfect yet," he admitted, coming to a stop in front of Victor at the boards again.

It was pretty close. Victor frowned at him, his nose flushing pink in a confusing mixture of awe, anger and pride. Victor had landed a quad loop in a fluke during an exhibition last year, but he'd never mastered it enough to consider putting it in a program. "How long have you been working on a that?"

"Off and on, forever. But recently… eight hours? Altogether."

"Yuuri!"

It was all pride now, Victor gaped at him. Yuuri smiled, soft and apologetic. "If you get your skates on, I'll teach you? You're going to need it this year, if you want to beat me."

Victor's breath caught, and he threw his arms around Yuuri, who squawked in surprise at being pulled against the boards before Victor cut it off with a deep kiss. Makka barked excitedly beside him, but Victor didn't stop kissing until Yuuri's hands were in his hair and it had been appropriately mussed by his gloves. He drew back just far enough, in that spot where Yuuri would see him clearly, even without his glasses.

"That," he breathed, "was the sexiest thing anyone has _ever_ said to me."

Yuuri's eyes melted, his cheeks pink and soft with his smile. "Did I surprise you?"

"Always! Always, solnyshko moya." Victor pressed a kiss into the corner of Yuuri's mouth, and then another onto his cheek. "I'll put my skates on, yes? I'm going to be the best student Yuuri!"

Yuuri laughed a little uncomfortably and rolled his eyes. "We'll see."

  

In the days that followed the World Championships, Yuuri suddenly had ten times the amount of endorsement offers, reporters clamouring for interviews, and requests for off-season appearances. He had always managed his career himself, because his offers outside of Japan were non-existent and the ones inside were largely handled by the JSF for him. He did a set of ads for Mizuno every year, four interviews throughout the season with Mooroka-san, and appeared in whatever ice shows Celestino organized for him. All of this was easily managed and routine, enough extra income for him to cover his university expenses, and send some money home. 

The endorsement from Milk had been an unexpected but pleasant surprise; for one photo shoot and a promise to use their products, Yuuri had been able to deposit enough money into the Onsen's business account that his mother had cried during their skype call, and his father set one hand on her shoulder and stoically waited several minutes before returning Yuuri's bow with a slight one of his own. He could finally provide for them, properly as a son should, and it had felt so, so good. He wanted to do the same for Mari, a thank you, for being the child his parents had needed while Yuuri was off chasing dreams. Yuuri had paid for less than normal over the season; all the usual specialists, but no studio or ice time for half the season, no groceries or rent for an apartment in a foreign country, and, most significantly, no coaching or choreographing fees. Victor wouldn't hear of it. Yuuri could carry over the unused portion of his JSF stipend to the 2018 season, and put his prize money and whatever he earned over the summer aside for Mari. Not a large sum, but a start. But then the emails had started.

The first few days, Yuuri had entertained dreams of early retirement for his parents, sending Mari back to college, setting her up a trust fund for life. He moved the offers into an email folder named "To consider", because he knew he should wait until he had them all before he agreed to anything, and thought about renovating Minako-sensei's studio, replacing the aging zamboni and skate sharpener at Ice Castle Hasetsu, and setting up savings accounts for each of the triplets. When he checked his email on the fourth day back in St. Petersburg, there were over three hundred new messages, and Yuuri shut his laptop with a small squeak. Victor arched an eyebrow at him over the newspaper, and Yuuri announced he was going for a run. The next day, there were nearly eight hundred emails, and Victor returned from the grocery store to find Yuuri hiding behind the neat rows of Victor's pressed trousers in the back of the walk-in closet, hyperventilating in front of his laptop screen.

"Sweetheart?" he said softly, and Yuuri felt like his ribs cracked.

_No no no no no no you can't even do this simple thing he's going to be so mad_

"My Yuuri… I'm going to help you up, okay? I will carry you somewhere more appropriate."

Yuuri just nodded, three quick jerks of his head, because he wasn't deserving of comfort right now, when he couldn't even accomplish a simple task, but whenever he had an attack, the first thing Victor tended to do was roughly manhandle him, abrupt and forceful, and then hold him so tight Yuuri couldn't possibly shrug him off or fly apart, which was exactly what he needed. Too many people tried to be soft with him, but Yuuri didn't deserve or want that.

Victor pushed the laptop off Yuuri's knees with a complete disregard for its remaining in one piece, and Yuuri had a brief moment to think _Take that, you stupid thing_ before Victor hauled him forwards and up onto his feet – displacing several neatly arranged pairs of shoes – and bent to set his shoulder into Yuuri's hip. Victor looped his arm over Yuuri's back and straightened, and he found himself folded over Victor's shoulder, his arms dangling uselessly and slapping softly against the backs of Victor's legs as he walked, his steps long and quick.

Victor's arms were like a vice around Yuuri's backside, his shoulder digging a little uncomfortably into Yuuri's groin, and Yuuri forgot why he was supposed to be panicking, because he'd had more than a few heady daydreams that had featured this exact scenario.

They didn't travel far, Victor dumped them on the bed and then slowly, tentatively, drew back; Yuuri blinked up at him and felt his cheeks redden. He knew he must have looked terrible, eyes bloodshot and watery behind his crooked glasses, his face swollen and blotchy, but Victor was leaning over him, had him caged in the safety of his limbs on their bed, and he was so beautiful that Yuuri didn't care.

"Victor," he breathed, and Victor's face softened.

"What's hurt you darling? Tell me. I'll kiss it better."

His accent was a little thicker, and Yuuri's toes curled against the duvet cover. "I – I need…"

"Anything, my Yuuri," Victor said fiercely, deep and husky in Russian. Yuuri groaned and gripped the front of Victor's shirt, pulled Victor down on top of him and into a searing kiss.

"This. Please, please Vitya…"

Victor took Yuuri's glasses off and set them carefully on the floor. He was less careful with Yuuri's clothing.

 

An hour later, Victor was idly running his fingers through Yuuri's hair, enjoying the warmth of him against his side and over his chest, and trying not to think too much about how the last time they'd slept together had been over a month ago. It had made him a little too rough and needy – he'd torn Yuuri's t-shirt – but Yuuri hadn't seemed to mind. Victor had missed him; after the fallout at Worlds Victor had thought it best to let Yuuri initiate any intimacy beyond kissing, which had resulted in a lot of comforting snuggling. It was enough if it was what Yuuri wanted. But this, he admitted, as he stroked his fingers along the line of Yuuri's arm, was something he was glad Yuuri had decided to need again too. And he had time now, time to make it up to Yuuri and be gentle, to cherish and adore him.

He pressed a kiss onto the top of Yuuri's head, and he realized Yuuri had been humming, because it cut off with a contented sigh.

"I missed this," Yuuri said softly, his fingers tracing slow patterns over Victor's heart. "It's been awhile…"

Victor's arms tightened reflexively. "I don't mind waiting, when it's for you," he said truthfully. He didn’t want anyone else, ever, for the rest of his life: only Yuuri. "Whatever you need, it's enough."

Yuuri said something in Japanese then; Victor thought he caught the words "save", "country" and "life" but it didn't quite translate. He could have asked Yuuri, but he knew that sometimes you said things in your first language because they were complicated to say in your second, that sometimes it was easier, safer, not to be understood. Instead, he continued to play with Yuuri's hair and waited for his breathing to even out again.

"Do you want to tell me what upset you?" he asked delicately.

"I have too many emails," Yuuri sighed, and Victor did not laugh, but waited for him to elaborate. It took him awhile, but eventually Yuuri explained the nature of the correspondence flooding his inbox, and how it had overwhelmed him. By the end of it, they were lying beside each other, Yuuri on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and Victor on his side, propped up on one elbow. He dropped a quick kiss onto the tip of Yuuri's nose.

"I can fix this," Victor admitted. "Will you let me?"

"How?" Yuuri asked, but then he gave himself a little shake. "Yes, I mean. Can you? Please?"

"You're a star, solnysko," he winked. "I saw it first but now everyone knows it. I ought to charge a finders fee. We'll put that in the contracts."

Yuuri opened his mouth no doubt to protest, but Victor silenced it with a soft kiss. "I will help you my Yuuri. What I want you to do, please, is make a list of all the things you'd like to put money aside for, and how much. That will give me an idea of what you need to accept."

Yuuri nodded slowly, and Victor could practically see the wheels trying to come off in his head. He tapped Yuuri's cheek. "I don't want you to overthink this, sweetheart. You like to make budgets; I've seen your spreadsheet. Think of this as your dream budget, yes? All the things you'd like to do. Don't worry about if you can, just think about what you want."

"Okay," Yuuri said doubtfully, which meant that whatever he came up with was going to be terribly practical, but that was who Victor had chosen to fall in love with. It just gave Victor more opportunities to spoil him. Victor sat up and clapped his hands together.

"Okay," Victor agreed, giddy with excitement. If there was one thing he did just as well as figure skating, it was this, and now he was going to show it off to Yuuri. "Get dressed, and meet me in the living room with your list!" He sprang from the bed, paused just long enough to quickly pull on his underwear, and went to rescue Yuuri's laptop from the closet. When Yuuri joined him on the couch he coaxed Victor to his feet and pulled his robe over his arms, one at a time, belting it for him while Victor continued his phone call.

 

Victor paid an American woman named Anna, based in New York, to represent him as his agent, publicist and manager, and she was more than happy to take on Yuuri at a significantly reduced cut. The emails and phone calls abruptly filtered down to a single report from her every morning in Yuuri's inbox, outlining the offers from the day before and what she thought made sense; Yuuri had the final say, but it was an immense relief to have her guidance and expertise. The JSF, who had also been inundated with requests for Yuuri, were relieved to defer to her.

One thing Yuuri adamantly refused to do, however, was interviews. He sent a brief apology to Morooka-san and any other news outlets were referred by Anna to Yuuri's press statement immediately following Worlds. The few Russian reporters who tried to ambush him were promptly shuffled away by either the security at Yubileyny, the rather burly and incredibly sweet man who lived on the first floor of their apartment building, or, memorably, on the sidewalk outside Lilia's studio by Yurio.

"Vultures!" Yurio huffed, glaring disdainfully at the photographer's retreating back, which was sporting a rather prominent slushy footprint that matched the bottom of his tiger-print shoe.

"How was Moscow?" Yuuri asked weakly. He continued to hold the door open in the hopes Yurio would step though it, and with one final sniff, he did. 

"Fine," he said, but once the door closed behind him, he gave Yuuri a rare smile. "It was really good, to see Grandpa."

Yuuri smiled back, following Yurio up the stairs towards the second largest studio, at the back of the building. Its large windows faced out over the river, making it a coveted practice spot that was Lilia's alone to dispense. She allowed Yurio to use it only when Yuuri was present, and Yuuri any time he wished. _You are very refined, Katsuki Yuuri_ , she'd said when he'd first danced for her. She has only ever given him one critique, in passing, as she watched Yurio and some of her other students like a hawk. _A little more control._ Yuuri repeated both statements to himself every time he walked into this room, and today was no different. He stepped out of his shoes on the mat in the hallway next to the door, and tapped the top of his left foot against the door frame, a habit he'd picked up from Minako-sensei. They always bowed themselves into her studio, like samurai entering a dojo, but it startled Westerners, so when abroad, just a tap.

His feet were already taped, and Yuuri preferred to teach barefoot, but he took off his parka and his heavy sweatpants and folded them next to his bag, and just in case, set out his dance shoes and his beloved Hender Scheme mip.10's. Yuuri had bought them with leftover prize money from his first appearance at Senior Nationals, and he only wore them inside a dance studio, never outside where they could be damaged, or worse, stolen. Yuuri put two water bottles out next to his shoes, laid a towel and his two spare t-shirts over the top of his bag, and then, feeling sufficiently prepared, he tucked his glasses into their case, picked up his mp3 player, and turned to face Yurio. He'd made a small mess in the corner, and was eating a protein bar.

"I only brought slippers," he said, gesturing with the half-eaten bar at Yuuri's neat set-up.

"That's fine," Yuuri assured him. "You should wear what makes you feel comfortable." Yuuri was wearing dry-fit leggings, a pair of Wayne State basketball shorts that had belonged to a boyfriend of Phichit's before he left them for too long in Yuuri's apartment and finders-keepers set in, and an oversized t-shirt that he was in the process of appropriating from Victor.  He noted that Yurio was dressed for ballet.

"How much experience do you have, with, um… other types of dance?"

"Like ballroom?" Yurio asked, and he flushed slightly. "I was never big enough. Yakov said I didn't need it, but I know some of the Latin dances."

Yuuri nodded, because that was good to know, but not quite what he'd meant. "What about when you go out with friends? Or school dances?"

Yurio blinked at him, his lip starting to curl. "Ah, it's just that, the music you sent me," Yuuri said, cutting him off at the pass before their first session erupted, and brandishing his mp3 player like a shield, "this music is for clubs? So, when you listen to it, what kind of dance do you envision?"

To his surprise, Yurio flushed deep scarlet, and looked away. "Look, I know you said you don't remember," he mumbled, "but in Sochi, when we had our dance-off, I was mostly just trying to copy the moves you did… I can do ballet."

The last part was said louder, and Yuuri smiled, understanding. "You're a great dancer Yurio, and a foundation in ballet is a perfect place to start today. It's where I started too." Yuuri walked to the sound system and plugged in, scrolling through his library to find Tycho's last album. Soft ambient music filled the room, and Yuuri squinted at the clock above the door. The hands clicked to 10am, and he raised his voice carefully over the music.

"Have you finished eating?"

Yurio chucked his protein bar wrapper into his bag and nodded. Yuuri's smile tightened. "Are you warmed up?" he asked, though he knew the answer. The first lesson, in ballet, was always about respect. Yuuri had done his daily stretches, an hour of barre at the apartment using the one Victor had installed for him in the spare room, and then jogged to the studio. He stretched his arches and looked at Yurio expectantly. "Well?"

Yurio gaped at him, and Yuuri snapped his fingers. "Standard twenty minutes, Plisetsky. If you want these classes to continue, you will arrive prepared at the time I am ready to teach."

 

Yuri wasn't sure what was more mortifying, having Yuuri correct his positioning, or watching him do a series of perfect grand jetés diagonally across the room while he waited for Yuri to finish warming up. He landed the last one just as Yuri was coming out of his final position, and Yuuri smiled easily, as if he hadn't just snapped at Yuri to watch his turnout. "Perfect," he said, his face round and pleasant and completely unpunchable. He walked to the stereo and turned down the volume of the music, fading it out before stopping it and readjusting the volume as he searched for his next piece. It was a semi-professional move that Yuri was not ashamed to admit impressed him.

"I'm going to put on some music, and I just want you to move to it any way you feel. This artist specializes in sampling, so the music is going to change a lot, sometimes abruptly."

"Sure," Yuri shrugged, earning him another one of Yuuri's weird tight smiles. "What's it called?"

"This album is Night Ripper, by Girl Talk." Yuuri bit his lip. "It's a little explicit, so let me know if you get uncomfortable."

Yuri snorted. "I am not a child, Katsudon!"

"Right," he said quickly, brightly. He gave Yuri a conspiratorial smile. "Just don't tell Lilia."

A strange shiver shot down Yuri's spine, and Yuuri hit play. A slow beat and some breathy back lyrics filled the studio, and Yuri listened for a moment before he started to move. Yuuri walked around him, nodding, and then he got into position to Yuri's left, and behind him, so they could watch each other in the mirror. For every movement Yuri made, Yuuri copied it, but he did something like drop his hips, break frame, change the position of his arms, or keep his free leg flat. It looked impossibly cool, and it pissed Yuri off. He started trying to do more difficult stuff to throw Yuuri off his game, until he did a few fouettés and Yuuri tumbled forwards into a handstand and spun himself around, flaring his legs out as he went. Yuri was once again transported to his absolute humiliation on the dance floor at the Sochi Grand Prix, and Yuuri fell backwards out of the handstand, rolling his legs under himself so he was simply sitting on the floor, one leg outstretched and the other bent over it. He set his elbow on his knee and his chin on his elbow, and the tempo of the music changed.

_Wait 'til ya see my dick_ , sang the back vocal, and Yuri flushed beet red. Yuuri winked at him in the mirror, and he wished for death, for the floor to open up and swallow him, to go back in time and never meet Yuuri. He hated the pig with the fire of a thousand hells. He hated that the last time he and Yuuri had been alone together, Yuuri had been singing to him in Japanese as he tucked Yuri in, nodding gently every time Yuri begged him not to leave, not to be angry. He wished he could drink like Yuuri, so much that you had no memory of anything.

Yuuri climbed to his feet and did a few windmills with his arms, rolled his neck. "The thing about this type of dance," he said, "is that it's a challenge. To the other people dancing, to everyone in the room. It's saying, look what I can do. It's better than what you can do. It's telling all the men in the club not to step into your space, and all the ladies that they should go home with you." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, and then laughed. "Maybe the opposite, in my case, but you get the idea."

Yuri contemplated throwing himself out of the window.

The music changed again and Yuuri did a complex set of steps, snapping his fingers in time. It was _so_ awesome. He did a quick spin and pointed at Yuri, eerily reminiscent of his free skate final pose.

"If you're going to dance this way Yurio, you have to think about that. Who you're telling to back off, and who you’re asking to come closer. And then you have to be confident to do it, or at least fake it enough to fool the audience."

"I know who I want to back off," Yuri snapped, "and I _am_ confident!"

"Great," Yuuri smiled, his face once again soft and non-threatening. "Now you just have to decide who you're dancing for."

An image floated unbidden into Yuri's mind, and he gasped a little bit before he could hide it with a scowl. Victor would have relentlessly teased him, but Yuuri just stood there, not even a hint of a knowing smile on his face.

"Teach me those steps you just did!" Yuri shouted, and Yuuri nodded. He turned towards the mirror and arched an eyebrow at Yuri through it.

"Watch closely, because I will show you twice, and then it's your turn."

 

Yuuri followed up his teaching session with Yurio with three more gruelling hours of self-led dance practice. The daylight spread into the wide, river-facing windows of the second-floor studio, and Yuuri shed his t-shirt and shorts so he could watch the lines of his body in the mirrors opposite. The cherry blossoms would just be starting to bud in Hasetsu, but St. Petersburg was still held close by the grip of winter; a grey, light-filled haze that seemed more appropriate to his mood. 

If Yuuri was honest with himself – and he rarely ever was – he would have admitted that he felt a similar, but different restlessness compared to his previous off-season. He knew what he wanted, and he had a fairly decent idea of what it would take to get there – training for the quad lutz was progressing, if agonizingly slowly – but it still felt half-formed, uncohesive. Ideas skittered too much in his head, refusing to take hold, and the directionless feeling had him committing himself to outdoor jogs, long hours in the dance studio, and evenings of figures at their private rink. What he should do, was talk to Victor. He was Yuuri's coach, and this was the type of discomfort that you should have been able to approach a coach with. But Victor was stretching himself thin organizing his domestic ice show, and it was early in the off-season; Yuuri told himself he had plenty of time. 

The same feeling chased Yuuri as he jogged home for a late lunch, and it followed him oppressively around the apartment until he became fed up and took Makka out for a long walk. When he got home he was pink-cheeked and stiff from the cold; it had started to sleet shortly after he'd left home, and Yuuri had misjudged the soft grey clouds and gone out in only his pea coat. Makka shook herself abruptly, covering Yuuri in dog-damp water, and made a beeline for her dog bed in the living room, where she buried herself under her favorite blue blanket.

"Good idea," Yuuri sighed in Japanese, slowly extricating himself from his sodden outerwear with numb fingers. There was a dull ache behind his eyes; he wanted soft, warm clothes and a cup of tea, and then Victor would be home and Yuuri could perhaps coax him into spending the rest of the day curled around each other in a snug nest of their bed sheets. He blew on his fingers and bent to pull off his boots.

"Solnyshko?"

Yuuri blinked through the water drops on his glasses. "You're home early," he said, lining his boots up on the waterproof mat in the closet.

"I cut practice early because of the weather," Victor explained. A smile quirked the edges of his lips. "Even Russians have their limit. I sent you a text?"

Yuuri's phone was sitting on the coffee table, where it couldn't threaten him with emails from reporters and notifications about skating forum posts. "Sorry, I missed it."

Victor reached out to take Yuuri's hands in his own, rubbing Yuuri's cold fingers in his palms. "I'll put the kettle on, yes?"

"Mm, thank you," he agreed, brushing past Victor, fighting against the feeling of his ribs constricting.

In the bedroom he traded his sodden jeans and socks for thick sweats and his slippers, and he spent five minutes standing in front of the drawer he kept his t-shirts in – the joint of his knuckle pressed into the bridge of his nose while he rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger – before he slammed it shut with a frustrated breath and plucked Victor's grey hoodie from the top of the laundry hamper. Yuuri sat on the corner of the bed and tried to get a hold of himself, his glasses in one hand and the other cramping into a fist in the duvet. The agitation he felt didn't abate, but it became an accustomed weight.

If the amount of time it took Yuuri to change clothes worried Victor, there was no indication of it when Yuuri finally made it out of the bedroom. Victor was sprawled across the couch, looking at his phone, but he sat up when he saw Yuuri. The sofa was piled with most of the throw pillows and blankets from their living room, plundered from chairs and the window seat; two mugs sat on the coffee table with a little plate of sushki that Makka was eyeing from her dog bed.

"I was going to watch a movie, do you want to watch too? Practice your Russian?"

Victor smiled and tapped his lip as he said it, and Yuuri knew the smile was meant to be light and easy and tried not to read too much into how he could tell it was just a little bit strained. He sat on the other end of the sofa and tucked his legs up under himself with a nod, reaching for his tea, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head. _You're a nuisance you're too much work who would want to live with someone they have to walk on eggshells around_ …

Victor put _Vam i ne Snilos_ on with the volume turned down low and English subtitles that Yuuri was too pent up to read along with. He wasn't quite sure how they went from drinking tea on opposite sides of the couch to lying across it in a soft mess of blankets and pillows, but Yuuri could be very obtuse when his anxiety wanted him to be, and Victor was exceptionally good at getting past all his walls. He wasn't even looking the television anymore; Yuuri had his back to the screen and was watching the light and shadows across Victor's face, held in the loose circle of Victor's arms, one of Victor's feet dragging slowly against his shin. Victor's eyes didn't leave the screen when he spoke.

"I was thinking today," he said quietly, his voice mingling with the soundtrack of the film and the wind against their windows, "that it's almost a year since I first went to Hasetsu."

Yuuri pressed himself a little bit closer. "Almost, yes," he agreed.

Victor's eyes slanted down, he looked at Yuuri with a softness that made the back of Yuuri's throat hurt, and Victor rolled slowly onto his back, letting Yuuri hide his face against his shoulder. His hand ran up and down Yuuri's spine, making him shiver.

"Yuuri," Victor said, "Let's go for the summer."

He was looking at Yuuri now with a desperate kind of restraint, even though his touches were patient, gentle. "To... Hasetsu?" Yuuri blinked, confused. "What about... Victor, you have your ice show?"

Victor made a frustrated, dismissive noise – as though the mere mention of the continent-crossing ice extravaganza he was spending all his time and energy organizing was completely ridiculous – and sat up, untucking Yuuri from his side so he could look him in the eye. Yuuri took off his glasses and started to clean them with the hem of his hoodie.

"Think about it, solnyshko. We can go together and work on our programs, with no distractions. I'm sure we can make arrangements with Yuuko for ice time. It's probably more than we would get if we stayed here; studio time too, Minako is far more obliging than Lilia. If we're in Hasetsu, we can go to the beach and eat katsudon, and I want go to the tanabata festival with you again. And maybe Okasan will let you sleep in my room now," he winked, voice turning husky.

"She couldn't really stop me," Yuuri muttered between exhales onto his lenses – his room and the one Victor had commandeered were on a separate floor from the rest of the family, and thanks to Detroit he was an expert at sneaking into bedrooms – and Victor beamed at him, his smile heart-shaped in his amazement.

"Yuuri!"

His ears went hot, and Yuuri pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. It was tempting, so tempting: salt surf and cherry blossoms and the sulfur of the Onsen, the sticky humidity dissolving into artificial cold inside of Ice Castle. The familiar streets and paths that all seemed to lead to the water, the castle on its hilltop, the silence and the isolating, insulating feeling of existing in a place free of expectations and scrutiny. Everything he loved – Minako's studio and his mother's home cooking and the soccer game on the television – and everywhere, _Victor_ , his laugh and his smile and the softer set of his shoulders that Yuuri only saw within their apartment in St. Petersburg now. It was impossible, despite all the years he'd spent growing up there on his own, to picture Hasetsu without Victor in it, he would forever be a part of the landscape, just as cherished and just as dear. Victor had lived there for just eight months, but the best eight months Yuuri had ever spent at home. He bit his lip; it was tempting, and he wanted it, but…

"...Victor, you can't just not skate in your own ice show..."

"So cruel Yuuri," Victor pouted. He took Yuuri's glasses out of his hand and cleaned them with the much superior fabric of his designer t-shirt before setting them on the coffee table. "You'd rather I spent my off-season travelling around Russia in a cramped train compartment with Yurio and Georgi for company?

"No! No..." That sounded like the absolute torture. "…but your fans..."

Something curled in Victor's smile, his eyes more earnest than they ought to be. He took hold of Yuuri's shoulders, leaning forward into the space where despite his nearsightedness, Yuuri could see him perfectly. "But my favourite fan is right here," he said, voice a little breathless and slightly pleading. "My beautiful fan who I want to be alone with all summer."

"Ahhh," Yuuri sank backwards into the sofa, squishing his eyes closed against his inner, sixteen-year-old self's high pitched screaming, and the onslaught of Victor looking down at him through his lashes. It made Victor start peppering his face with kisses, and Yuuri squirmed under him, giggling slightly hysterically. He liked the idea of being alone with Victor entirely too much – of stealing him away and keeping him all to himself where no one else could claim him – and they were alone right now.

Yuuri hooked his ankle around Victor's thigh, surged upwards with pure core strength to wrap his arms around Victor's shoulders and haul him down as he curled over. He sat triumphantly on Victor's lap and captured Victor's beautiful face between his hands, relishing in the look of unhindered adoration and awe sparkling in his blue eyes. _Mine_ , he thought, and it made him kiss Victor with what he realized was a smile when their lips met.

"Yes," he said. "Let's go to Hasetsu."

 

It was much later that night when Yuuri eased himself carefully out of bed, tiptoeing down the hall to the office so he wouldn't disturb Victor or Makkachin. He sat in only the light provided by his laptop screen and put in his headphones, scrolling through his extensive iTunes library, because he had a song in his head that wouldn't go away. It wound solid through his thoughts, a thin, golden thread that he could see stretching out before him, one that he could follow to perhaps realize all the dreams he held for the upcoming season. Yuuri listened to a few select tracks, and then he started typing an email.

 

* * *

 

The welcome home party marked the first time in Yu-Topia history that the Onsen would be closed to the public. Mari picked Victor and Yuuri up from the train station in the family's old van, humming to her j-pop and smiling at the sight of them leaning drowsily on each other in the backseat. Victor caught her eye and winked at her, fiddling with the Japanese SIM card he'd kept in his wallet since returning to St. Petersburg. His phone pinged almost immediately with notifications when he turned it on, tweets and emails and instagram posts of their Yubileyny rink mates on the train to Moscow for Victor's ice show, but he only opened the first one.

"Yuuri, look," he smiled, holding his phone out and tapping him on the cheek. Yuuri huffed and turned his face out of Victor's shoulder.

"What, Vitya – oh!"

It was an email from the upscale kennel where Makkachin stayed whenever Victor had to travel for longer stretches; an update on her eating and sleeping and how she was acclimatizing, which was apparently very well. Yuuri had been slightly bereft at having to leave her behind, but by the time Makka's paperwork was processed and she cleared quarantine, it would have been time for them to return to Russia. Under the brief and glowing report was a photo of Makka playing tug with her new kennel friend, a dalmatian named Sputnik who she had apparently taken to immediately.

"Look at our girl," Yuuri sobbed in Russian, which set the tip of Victor's nose on fire. "She made a friend, of course she did..." Yuuri took Victor's phone out of his hands and continued to make adorable noises while he sent the photo to his own phone, and Victor swallowed the lump in his throat and kissed his hair fondly, offering silent thanks to the universe for supplying the finest medicine possible for the unexpected scrum of reporters at Pulkovo. Yuuri had spent most of their trip with his head buried in the crook of Victor's neck, but now he sat up, seemingly reenergized, and pointed out the window.

"They renovated the front of the high school," he said, handing back Victor's phone, and then leaned forwards to ask Mari in Japanese about it.

"They did," Victor agreed, and then he smiled to himself. Hasetsu was a place of his own now, where he had a history, where he could come back to. The same feeling reared again much later when he was sitting cross-legged in the main dining room of the Onsen, pleasantly warm and soft around the edges, watching Takeshi and Yukko in waltz-off against Toshiya and a surprisingly determined Mari while Minako-sensei shouted slurred corrections and Yuuri dozed off his jet lag against his shoulder. Hiroko took Victor's empty beer glass from him with a soft smile. 

"Do you want anything, Vicchan?"

"No, thank you, Okasan," he smiled. "I have everything I need."

 

Yuuri got up before dawn, the first morning in Hasetsu. He ate three onigiri stuffed with egg and drank a glass of cold tea in the kitchen before he laced up his running shoes, queued Sea Level's Invisible Cities album up on his phone, and jogged down to the sea into the rising sun. On the beach he had to strip off his track pants and hoodie, and he ran the rest of the way to Ice Castle in a t-shirt and shorts, waving at all the people who called out to welcome him home or wish him a good morning. He let himself into the arena with his panda-topped key and turned on only the lights in the locker room and over the rink; whichever Nishigori had the dubious privilege of opening today – hung over, most likely, if the welcome home party carnage still in in the main dining room of the Onsen was any indication – would alert him of their presence when the other lights came on. He had a tepid shower and did his warm-up stretches to Aimer while he waited for his hair to dry completely.

Yuuri had a particular set of warm-ups he liked to do when he was alone, a mixture of his own preferences and influences from Victor he'd developed when he was younger that Celestino had tried to break him of. He started with laps, then sprints, then foot work that built in increasing difficulty and flexibility until he was loose enough for spins and spirals. Yuuri stretched himself into a long, elongated lunge, and then built up speed for a series of spin transitions, turning out of them just as the lights came on over the spectator section of the arena. Takeshi waved and yawned from the zamboni bay, where he was standing at the electrical panel, and waited for Yuuri to pull out his earbuds.

"Welcome back to your real home rink," he called. "Where's Victor?"

"I let him sleep in." Yuuri smiled fondly to himself. Victor could hold his liquor, but he was no match for Otousan and Minako-sensei. He had trailed his fingertips gently down Victor's spine in the dark this morning, and Victor had muttered something about snowflakes in Russian and rolled over. "What time do classes start?"

"Eleven." Takeshi walked over and set a towel over the boards where Yuuri had left his skate guards and water bottle. "Yuuko booked you back in at four, just like before."

"Thanks for this." Victor had made all the arrangements; everything they'd need develop their choreography for the season, creating the same environment that had given birth to Yuuri's most successful and record breaking program. It felt right to be back here, and Yuuri inclined his head in gratitude, digging his toe pick into the familiar helmet of the chibi samurai mascot at centre ice with a little smile.

Takeshi just shrugged him off. "You're good for business, Yuuko already ordered a new banner. I'll be back at 10:30 to clear you off so I can resurface the ice."

"Um, actually," Yuuri skated a bit closer, a hand out to stop Takeshi from leaving. "Can you stay and spot me? I want to try some jumps out."

 

When Victor showed up an hour later, Yuuri had worked his way through doubles, triples and a series of quad toes and salchows. He'd been practicing for balance, a tano, then a rippon, and he was building his courage to try it with the quad flip. Yuuri lapped the rink to build up speed, but then he heard the rink door creak open, and did a quad loop instead. 

Takeshi and Victor spoke briefly in a jovial mixture of accented English and Japanese while Yuuri made himself land two more loop jumps. When he finished, Victor stood at the boards alone. Yuuri skated up to him and gave him a good morning kiss over the barrier.

"Did Okasan make you breakfast?" he asked. Victor tasted like Pocari Sweat, the Hello Kitty lip balm he'd bought at the airport in Tokyo, and home.

"I just had a few bites. I missed natto, you know," Victor smiled, slightly pained. He hated natto, and Yuuri had gotten into the habit last summer of eating it for him when Okasan wasn't looking.

"Sorry," Yuuri smiled. "I'll make you some ochazuke after practice."

"Thank you." Victor laughed a little, the tip of his nose going pink from something other than the artificial cold. He gave Yuuri a kiss on the cheek, then took a cd case out of his pocket and tapped it on the top of the boards. "I got your note."

Yuuri had left it on the bookcase, propped up against the framed, autographed picture of Victor that he had stolen off Yuuri's desk. It had been good timing, Yuuri had gotten the email from Otabek two nights ago, the only person he could trust to cut the music properly without leaking the songs to the press. He'd marked the cd with three kanji, his chosen theme for the season, written large and clear enough that Victor could translate it with his phone.

"Is this what you want Yuuri?"

It was an Olympic year, so the choice of his program music was important – most people went with serious themes or something evocative of their home country, although from snapchat Yuuri had a feeling he was going to be hearing a lot of the Moulin Rouge soundtrack this year – but more than that, it was his opportunity to be declarative on the world stage, in front of not just skating fans, but everyone. And there was only one message he wanted to deliver.

Yuuri leaned down to clean the built up slush off his blades. "Mm," he nodded.

But Victor either hadn't heard him, or wanted to be sure. "Zolotse?"

The nickname made him clench his fists. He deserved it, he'd earned it – National and Four Continents Champion – but there was also an asterisk beside it now that he couldn't let lie. Yuuri had always had a dream too big to bear alone, but he wasn't alone anymore, and he was going to turn that asterisk into an exclamation point this season, a final, firm truth. _I know what love is, and I'm stronger for it!_ And Yuuri's love was proud, it was brave, it was strong.

Yuuri put his hands on the boards and pressed his forehead into Victor's. "I want it, Vitya," he said, and Victor's eyes melted, he nodded in determined excitement. On the barrier between them sat the cd in its case, bearing Yuuri's careful penmanship.

回復力

Resilience.

 

* * *

  

There were no reporters waiting for them at Pulkovo, just Mila and one very excited poodle. Yuuri and Victor both abandoned their luggage and dropped to their knees in near unison so Makka could lick them to her heart's content while Mila filmed the reunion on her phone. Her Instagram video – _Welcome home, Dog Dads @v-nikiforov and @y_katsuki_   – got more likes than the one featuring her own gold medal win from Boston. On the ride back to the apartment, Yuuri sat in the front and caught up with her while Victor lovingly pet Makkachin in the backseat, cooing adorably to her in Russian.

Mila waited until they had all their luggage on the curb and then she rolled down the passenger-side window, leaning across the seat. "Don't forget!" she called, grinning and winking at them over the rims of her sunglasses, "Team SHUDSHOR season kick-off party this Saturday! 10pm at Nebar, I have VIP!"

Victor rolled his eyes fondly but Yuuri smiled at her. "Sure," he nodded. "See you there."

 

It was very important to Yuri, first things first, that he got the sickest looking selfie of himself standing under the neon cat mural inside Nebar. Yuri was sixteen now and this was the first time he'd been legally allowed inside a club; he'd dressed for the occasion in his converse high-tops, black skinny jeans with the knees torn out, a black tank-top and a cheetah-print mesh long-sleeved shirt. He'd pulled his hair back into a messy bun and applied a liberal amount of kohl to his eyes – stolen from Lilia's bathroom – which had prompted Mila to exclaim "Yurotchka, look at you!" when she'd opened her door. She plunked him down at her kitchen table with a beer while she finished getting ready, and one of her roommates painted Yuri's nails black for him. Yuri thought he looked fierce, strong and lithe like a jungle cat, which was the exact kind of aloof and predatory vibe he was aiming for; especially when the skaters from Yakov's summer camp arrived, a few no-name Russian hopefuls who couldn't hold a candle to him, and one Kazakh in the baddest leather jacket Yuri had ever seen.

"Beka," he grinned.

"Look at you," Otabek repeated, and Yuri smirked at him.

"Let's get a drink, yeah?" he said, gesturing towards the bar with an elegant flourish that displayed his lacquered nails.

A small smile tugged at Otabek's lips. "Sure, I'll buy you one."

They were firmly ensconced in the VIP area Mila had reserved; Yuri sipping the fruity drink Beka had picked out for him and watching Beka nod his head along to the music in companionable silence, when Victor and Yuuri arrived. Yuri knew it happened because the mood in the club below them suddenly turned electric, a thousand people excitedly repeating the name Nikiforov. Victor rarely went out in St. Petersburg, and Yuri hissed quietly to himself. Of course; Victor was here to steal the spotlight with his mere presence alone.

"Yutenka!" Mila squealed excitedly, tottering over on her impossibly high heels to wrap Yuuri into a hug. "You miracle worker, I can't believe you convinced him! Victor never comes to our parties!"

"Ahh-haa…" Yuuri laughed awkwardly, "Thank you for inviting us, Mila."

"Come, come have a drink!"

Mila led them over to the couch opposite Yuri and Otabek, and then Georgi arrived and she was flying off to greet him as well. Otabek nodded at both of them.

"Hi, Yurio," Yuuri said. "You look nice!"

"Thanks," Yuri muttered, looking at the carpet. "You look…"

Yuuri was dressed in a black v-neck t-shirt and tight black cotton pants, gathered above his bare ankles and showing off a very cool pair of black sneakers with multi-coloured soles and a zig-zag embroidered into the side. His hair was so long now and falling into his eyes, and he looked friendly and approachable and probably smelled nice too. He'd done something to his cheekbones and Yuri grasped that, blurting out indignantly: "Are you wearing glitter?"

Victor arched an eyebrow at him, pouring vodka into two glasses, but Yuuri just laughed. "Yes," he admitted. "Does it look weird? I'm a spokesperson for Milk so I am testing this out… I figured if it lasts through tonight it should be good enough for on the ice."

"It looks cool," Otabek offered, sparing Yuri from having to answer. "Are those ECG sneakers?"

"Oh, yes!" Yuuri smiled, as if pleased someone had noticed. He accepted his drink from Victor, clinking it against Victor's glass before downing it in one go. He pointed at Otabek's shoes. "Nice Y-3's!"

Otabek's answering grin was enormous; it made Yuri's chin drop. Before he knew what was happening, Yuuri and Beka had their phones out, scrolling through pictures of shoes and talking about the inflated merits of Air Jordan's. It left Yuri alone with Victor, who was watching Yuuri in fond bemusement and sipping his drink, refilling Yuuri's glass each time he emptied it. Yuri curled his lip; Victor was wearing jeans and a blue dress shirt, tan loafers and an expensive looking watch. He looked like an absolute square, and Yuri was about to tell him so when Mila breezed in and threw her arms around him.

"Yurotchka my precious!" she cooed and Yuri screeched and tried to break away from her, but Mila wasn't the World Champion for nothing, her arms were like steel bands.

"Release me you hag!" he shouted, but Mila just manhandled him so she could hold him with one arm and reached her free hand out to Yuuri.

"And my Yutenka," she giggled, as Yuuri accepted her hand with a smile. "A Yuri for each arm, this is a good day."

"Sit with us for a bit, Mila–" Victor started, but then the music shifted downstairs and she was pulling Yuuri's hand.

"Yuuri Yuuri Yuuri!! It's our SONG!"

Yuri recognized the beat; Mila and Yuuri had been working on a program together in the spring, just for fun, and Yuuri's eyes sparkled in recognition as he got to his feet. His casual outfit suddenly made so much sense to Yuri; they were all here to be looked at, but Yuuri was here to _dance_. Mila's arm was still around him and Yuri let himself be pulled off the couch, swept up into Mila's excitement. Yuuri was going to dance! 

"Coming, Victor?" Yuuri asked, and Victor shook his head.

"Let me get a few more of these down," he said, shaking his drink with a wink. "I'll watch you from here."

Yuuri took the lead, holding Mila's hand, and she dragged Yuri along until they were at the edge of the dance floor and she finally let go of both of them. Yuuri stepped onto the floor and the beat broke and Mila leapt backwards, blind, into Yuuri's arms. His arm came up and caught her around the waist; she dangled her arms over his shoulders and folded her legs around his thighs as Yuuri spun them around. Yuri's face caught fire, his stomach churned, and he felt dizzy.

"Shit," Yuri gasped. "Shit, shit, shit…" He fumbled for his phone and had enough presence of mind to capture the end of their lift, Yuuri setting Mila down on the floor like she was made of air. They moved in unison then, the crowd opening around them, Mila in her short pink dress with her flashing red hair and Yuuri, a dark and mysterious creature folding himself around her, a hand always careful on her back or elbow, giving her support so she could dance in her precarious shoes. Yuuri made Mila look beautiful next to him, he swept her off her feet again, a hand on her thigh and across her chest, her skirt flaring with his spin. Yuri's eyes darted through the crowd around them. There was not girl watching who wasn't looking jealously at Mila, and Yuri smirked. They came to a stop in front of Yuri as the song changed, huffing with laughter. Yuuri set Mila down and she kissed both his glitter-highlighted cheeks.

"I'm the only girl you can dance with tonight," she laughed, and Yuuri took hold of her hand and kissed her knuckles in response.

Yuri ended the video there, but Yuuri wasn't finished, he rolled his shoulders and crooked his hand towards Yuri. "Get out here, Yurio!" he called.

Yuri shoved his phone into his back pocket and did a lunge onto the floor, grinning. "That first lift was fucking sick!"

"Do you want to try it?" Yuuri asked, smiling, and Yuri gaped at him.

"What, me?"

"Hmm… where's Otabek?" Yuuri asked instead.

Mila nodded towards the balcony, where Victor and Beka were both leaning against the railing of the VIP area. Yuuri winked and put his arm around Yuri's shoulders. "Let's see if we can't get them out here, hm?" he said in Yuri's ear. "Have you ever done a twist lift?"

Yuri nodded because he had, his cheeks burning. Yuuri _did_ smell nice. "Don't drop me," he begged softly.

"Never," Yuuri promised. "We'll do a double, ready?"

He just nodded again, his throat dry, and then Yuuri was pulling him close, wrapping his arms around Yuri's waist and throwing him into the air; Yuri spun twice off the snap of Yuuri's wrists and then he was falling, but Yuuri caught him, strong and reassuring. Yuri had his back to him so he leaned into Yuuri and dangled his arms over his shoulders, he heard Yuuri laugh and start to spin, and Yuri grinned and folded up his legs until Yuuri tapped his hip and he knew to turn out to be set down.

Yuuri danced around him then; he let Yuri dictate where they were moving, and he intuitively went where Yuri led, mirroring Yuri or complementing him, making Yuri look like a better dancer than he knew he was. He was the beautiful thing on Yuuri's arm now, and it was so much better than the Sochi Grand Prix banquet, when he'd been humiliated, or any of their classes together where Yuuri was kind but demanding. It was a heady feeling; knowing everyone was staring at him with envy. When Yuuri widened his orbit around Yuri to include Mila he had to fight off a sudden, irrational rush of anger, which disappeared instantly when he realized that Otabek had joined them.

"Where have you been?" he grinned, and Beka pressed another drink into his hand, blessedly cool in the heat of the dance floor.

"I was getting you this," he smiled.

Yuri sipped it gratefully; it was cranberry flavoured, sweet and tart, and it settled cool in his chest and made him shiver. "The next one's on me," he promised.

It should have been awkward, dancing with Beka, who was a little stiff, but Yuuri was there to dart around them, to shake himself against Otabek and make him laugh, or lift Yuri again into the air. Georgi joined them after a few songs and Yuri lost track of time, bound only by the beat and the sweltering heat of the bodies pressed around them, clinging to Beka's sweaty shoulders or Yuuri's waist, letting Mila and Georgi dip him. He would have been lost to the trance until the club closed if the sudden frisson that passed through the dance floor hadn't pulled him out of it.

Yuri knew it was Victor, because several girls screeched his name at once, and Yuuri froze. Victor hadn't even managed to make it to the bottom of the stairs; he was standing on the second step and posing politely with several people for selfies. Yuri watched Yuuri watch the crowd of people around Victor thicken, and then he saw Yuuri square his shoulders, and walk off the dance floor towards the VIP staircase.

_The thing about this type of dance, is that it's a challenge._

Yuuri disappeared into the throng of people excitedly pressing around Victor; Yuri saw him again when he stepped up onto the first step and held his hand out to Victor. Victor took it and let himself be pulled along in Yuuri's wake, smiling apologetically at all the people gathered around him who were parting for Yuuri because he had that same tight-lipped, contained anger on his face; _I can't believe I have to put up with your shit too_. Yuri clutched Beka's arm when Yuuri reached the edge of the dance floor, and it felt like the bottom of his stomach was falling out, because he knew what was coming.

_You just have to decide who you're dancing for._

"I think I'm going to get a drink," Yuri said to Beka, who watched him for a moment. Multicoloured spotlights moved across Otabek's face, mottling his features and making the minutia of his expression unreadable.

"Let's go sit upstairs for a bit," he said finally. "I should make sure no one's stolen my jacket."

 

Yuuri's ECG's hit the parquet, his space, his kingdom, and he turned to smile at Victor. All in blue, cresting out of the five undone buttons of his dress shirt like a ship on a wave, those sea-coloured eyes sparkling. "My hero," Victor murmured, smiling the way he did for Yuuri alone.

"Were you coming down to dance with me?" he asked, running his thumb over Victor's ring.

"You all left me up there with nothing but Otabek's jacket for company," Victor pouted. "Some oil baron tried to get my phone number!"

"Where is he?" Yuuri growled, and Victor laughed.

"Let's keep you out of jail, zolotse," he winked.

But Yuuri was scanning the club, looking for the most sinister person he could imagine, and the open looks of longing that were landing on Victor from every angle did nothing to dissipate his annoyance. That Victor, who _loved_ to dance, couldn't even come out onto the dance floor without people instantly expecting something from him was unfair. Yuuri set his hand over Victor's heart, noting that the song was going to change soon.

"I think," Yuuri said, taping his ring finger on Victor's chest, leaning in, "that some of the people in this club have forgotten who you came here with."

They'd been back in Russia for less than a week, and already, Yuuri could see the tightness in Victor's back, the controlled way he held himself in public. If they hadn't been in Hasetsu all summer; if the sudden change from the expressive and tender way they could act around each other there hadn't been so glaringly obvious, Yuuri might have missed it the way he did when he'd first moved to St. Petersburg. Their relationship belonged to them alone, but right now, standing in the club and feeling like everyone was looking at _his_ fiancé like they had a chance at him, Yuuri was overcome with that same tugging feeling he had felt performing Eros; that he had something to prove.

Victor's nose was already pink, but his cheeks flushed too, and Yuuri slid his fingers across Victor's chest to touch his breastbone, warm with his blush. Yuuri lowered his eyelashes and smiled up at him, letting go of Victor's hand to slide his fingers along the small of Victor's back. He stepped in close and pressed up onto the balls of his feet, stroked his fingers up Victor's bare chest and the side of his neck to tilt Victor's head so his ear was right next to Yuuri's lips. "I think I need to remind everyone who's going home with you."

The beat hit then and Yuuri dropped with it, one hand gripping Victor's backside as he rolled into Victor's hips. It caused Victor to make an indecent noise at the back of his throat that Yuuri felt against every part of his body, and he liked it so much, he rolled against Victor again, chasing the sound. Yuuri's mind went hazy with alcohol and the unyielding desire to ensure everyone – absolutely everyone – knew that Victor was the person Yuuri had wanted to dance with all night, and that Yuuri was the _only_ person in the club with whom Victor would be dancing for the rest of it.

Yuuri did a half turn, snaking his arms over Victor's shoulders. "Think you can keep up with me?" he asked with a flirty wink, and Victor's eyes went dark. He set his hands on Yuuri's waist and lifted him off his feet, and Yuuri jumped into him, he wrapped his legs around Victor's hips and let go of Victor's neck, arching his back, rewarded for his knowing confidence when Victor's hands slid up to guide and balance his weight as Yuuri curled back towards the floor so he could pop away and into a handspring. His feet hit the floor and he shut his eyes, feeling Victor's hand grip his waist, Victor's fingers in his sweaty hair. Yuuri stole a kiss from under Victor's jaw and untangled himself, spinning Victor so he could dance out of his grasp, and Yuuri laughed when Victor caught him and pressed them together. He trailed his hands down the outer seams of Victor's jeans and leaned in, slow and soft, hips swaying the way he knew drove Victor crazy.

"Don't take your eyes off me, Vitya."

 

The next morning Yuuri woke up stiff and sticky, grateful for blackout curtains and aware that their room smelled like stale sweat and vodka. He stumbled quietly into the shower so he didn't wake Victor up, and he felt much better after twenty minutes of stretching under hot water. One of them had had the forethought to set clean underwear out on the bathroom counter, along with Yuuri's glasses. He pulled them on and shrugged into Victor's bathrobe, shuffling across the apartment in his slippers with small steps, conscious of the twinge in his thighs, where he had small, twin, circular bruises from Victor's sharp hipbones. In the living room he paused to gather up all of their discarded clothes and tuck them into the small laundry closet; Makka followed him into the kitchen and whined softly, her little tail wiggling, until he filled her bowl with kibble. Yuuri turned on the samovar and drank a large glass of water, and then he went to the front door to get the paper for Victor before the old man who lived at the end of their hall stole it on his way out to church.

When Victor limped out of their bedroom, naked under the duvet he'd wrapped himself up in, Yuuri was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping genmaicha and frowning at the iPad, on which he was using Google Translate and the cyrillic keyboard to decipher the morning news. Victor eased himself gingerly into the seat across from Yuuri and leaned forward to lie on the table with a groan. "Do we have any aspirin?" he asked pitifully, a disembodied voice in a goose down cocoon.

"Yes," Yuuri said softly, flipping the paper over and tucking the news section under the sports to deal with later. He patted the duvet fondly. "It's in my travel bag, I'll get you one."

Yuuri went to the spare room, where they kept their suitcases in the closet, and he came back with the bottle of aspirin to find Victor sitting up and staring at the front page of the newspaper with tears glistening in his eyes.

"Victor…"

He jumped. His eyes found Yuuri's and they were enormous and so terribly sad that Yuuri's eyes started to water too. "Sweetheart," Victor gasped quietly, "I'm sorry, so sorry…"

Yuuri moved faster than his strained muscles were happy with, but he crossed the kitchen and put his arms around Victor, burying his face into the duvet. On the front page of the paper was a large and slightly blurry photo of Victor and Yuuri, hugging on the sidewalk outside Nebar.

"What does the headline say?" he asked. "I couldn't get it to translate."

"It says… god Yuuri… it says 'Victor's Exotic New Dessert?'; I am going to fix this, I promise–"

Yuuri cut him off with a kiss, and then he drew back, cupping Victor's face carefully in his palms. His face felt red with embarrassment, but he was twenty-four, and used to owning up to the escapades of his drunk alter-ego by now. And unlike other activities he'd managed to get up to in the past under the influence of alcohol, Yuuri did not regret this one. "I'm not exactly a _new_ dessert," he murmured, "are you going to make them print a correction?"

Victor blinked, and Yuuri smiled at him, dropping a soft kiss onto his damp cheek. "I had a great time last night," he admitted shyly, feeling the tips of his ears heat. He leaned over and pulled the paper closer, opening it to the full page spread of pictures. It was still embarrassing to see them – to see himself completely uninhibited and doing things that were perhaps a little bold – but he'd had a bit of time to process the initial shock, and just like the photos from the Sochi banquet, they were special, because they were of him and Victor dancing together. These ones were clearer than the front page, considering they'd been shot on phone cameras, through a crowd in a dark club, and Yuuri tapped one of him standing in front of Victor, his hands set over Victor's around his own waist, turning slightly with a grin on his face. Victor was wearing a beautiful, soft look, smiling bashfully. "This one's my favorite," he told Victor quietly.

"You're not upset?" Victor asked, and Yuuri shook his head.

"I was surprised – I guess I drank a bit more than I thought I did… but I'm glad." Yuuri smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "Does that make sense?"

Victor nodded slowly, looking at the photos. Yuuri pulled at the duvet until he could sit on Victor's lap and fold them both back up in it. There were reasons, he knew, for why they didn't publicize their relationship, the first and foremost being Yuuri's own preference for privacy. But in the face of Victor's tears, in the warm sunshine in the apartment they shared together, Yuuri couldn't drum up any incentive to give any of those reasons weight. He took his phone out of the pocket of Victor's robe and pulled up his photo album. "I have some better pictures from last night," he offered. "Do you want to see? I thought… maybe – if you like some of them, I might post a few? Fans in Japan are very excited, they've been tweeting at me all morning."

Victor put his arms around Yuuri's waist and set his chin on Yuuri's shoulder. "Show me," he whispered.

 

Yuri completely fucked up Lilia's pillowcases, which had him banished to the laundry room before he could eat breakfast to scrub the kohl out of them by hand. He was tired and his head was a little foggy, but Yuri smiled to himself as he dunked the pillowcases into soapy water, thinking about how he'd soared over the crowd, twisting through the air before Yuuri caught him, thinking about Beka always at his elbow and how he'd dropped his jacket over Yuri's shoulders while they waited at the taxi stand. He'd taken the long leather cord on his jacket that was used as a zipper pull and uncurled it around the metal, pulled it over Yuri's fingers and down his hand. _I'll get this back from you at the Grand Prix Final_ , he'd told Yuri. It sat around his wrist now, soft black leather that was clasped together with a tiny silver stud.

Yuri hung the pillowcases up to dry and floated down the hall to the kitchen; he poured himself a glass of milk and took it and three pieces of bread smeared with Nutella into his room. He sprawled on his bed and opened his phone, where Twitter was blowing up for some reason. He had ten new notifications on Instagram so he clicked there first.

The first photo in his feed had been posted by Victor less than an hour ago: sunlight pouring into what Yuri knew was Victor's kitchen; Yuuri wearing Victor's custom, Виктор-embroidered bathrobe, sipping from a mug and reading the paper, while Victor winked at the camera and kissed his cheek, the two of them obviously dishevelled from sleep and wrapped up in the duvet from their bed. _Breaking news! My life and love, @y_katsuki !_ Yuuri had posted underneath _If you have photos from Nebar last night, don't forget to tag us_ , followed by a winking face. Both the photo and Yuuri's comment had thousands of likes already, and there were hundreds of comments after, but Phichit's was the first one below Yuuri's. _Let me be the first to tag this: #Victuuri._

Yuri frowned and pulled up his photo album, scrolling through his pictures from the evening before. He had some pretty killer videos of Yuuri devastating the club scene of St. Petersburg, photo after photo of them together on the dance floor, helpfully taken by Mila. There was a single selfie, Yuuri was beaming into the camera and making rabbit ears over Yuri and Otabek's heads. Yuri hesitated over the picture and then closed his phone completely, flinging it across his bed. There was nothing in his photo album that he thought the world needed to see.

 

The street in front of Yubileyny on Monday was lined on both sides with television trucks, and Yuuri – who had been fidgeting in the front seat from his extra hour of sleep and the pent up energy he hadn't expended on the jog they usually used to get from the apartment to the rink – sat straight up, his fists constricting on his knees. Victor had to turn into the parking lot slowly, because as soon as his black Mercedes-Benz pulled in, it was mobbed on both sides by cameras. He edged into a parking space and cut the engine, turning to smile at Yuuri, who was staring wide-eyed out the front window.

"Solnyshko," he said quietly, through his teeth so his carefully crafted smile didn't move, "we just have to give security a second, yes?"

"What… what is all this…?"

Victor effected a laugh, that would look, in photos, like Yuuri had just said something brilliantly witty. "I guess the press has some questions for us, sweetheart," he beamed behind his sunglasses. Victor had thrown out the newspaper that morning – a photo of Yuuri going into their apartment building that had been taken a some point over the winter and the headline 'More than Just Roommates?' – while Yuuri was in the shower.

Yuuri looked at him, and a tiny line appeared between his eyebrows, right above the bridge of his glasses. His teeth slid into his bottom lip, and he cut a glance back out the front window, where microphones were being urgently thrust over the hood of the car in an effort to pick up what they were talking about. Yuuri's shoulders straightened, and he gave himself a tiny shake. "Right!" he huffed, and before Victor could stop him, he unbuckled his seatbelt, thrust open the passenger side door, and clambered out of the safety of the car's tinted glass, slinging his skate bag over his shoulders in one smooth motion and nearly smacking an enterprising photographer in the face with it.

"Yuuri!" Victor shouted, but it was muffled by the sound of the door closing behind him. "Bozhe moi…"

He reached for his seatbelt and watched Yuuri bow several times as he made his way quickly around the front of the car, stopping at the driver side door to open it for Victor. As soon as it opened, reporters started yelling in several languages.

"Victor! Are you dating Katsuki Yuuri?"

Yuuri held his hand out to Victor with a small smile, and arched an eyebrow at him. The look in his eyes was clearly saying _Don't make me late for practice._

Victor pulled his skate bag from the backseat and exited the car with the careful grace he'd practiced at hundreds of red carpet events; he tried to put his hands in his pockets the way he did when talking to reporters in his street clothes, but Yuuri's hand tightened over his, almost in a reassuring squeeze, as he started to lead Victor forwards through the throng of media. Victor watched the back of Yuuri's head, suddenly hit with the memory of Yuuri's equally assured march onto the dance floor at Nebar, and his cheeks flushed, something heavy thudding through his chest.

"Yuuri…" he murmured, lips quirking into a tiny, surprised smile.

"How long have you been dating?" someone shouted, and Yuuri didn't even pause his stride.

"Eight months," he declared, which made Victor frown, because that would have taken them back to December only. Yuuri's hand pressed again around his, and Victor felt the sides of his ring. _Oh… oh…_ it wasn't accurate but it kept everything that had happened before – dances in Sochi and a summer of pining, kisses in China and every hotel bed pushed together in between, their legs tangling as they went down, giggling, trying to skate an ice dance to Stammi Vincino and keep their hands from going where they really wanted them to – for themselves alone. _Oh!_

Before Yuuri, Victor had dated one man, a college student and track athlete who he'd met at a state-sponsored Sport function. Artem had been dashing and smart; darkly handsome and three years older – experienced in ways Victor was not. He'd taken Victor home that first night and slept with him immediately, and Victor had spent the next day wincing as he walked and sitting very daintily, thinking something mysterious, wondrous, and life-changing had happened to him. He'd been slightly disappointed that no one had noticed his transformation.

Victor had been twenty-one at the time and coming off a disappointing season of injury and failure. Already a household name in Russia for winning gold in Turin at seventeen, he skated on a broken foot to thirteenth in Vancouver, and had to watch, stone faced, as Evgeni Plushenko – a man Victor had handily beaten at Nationals – climbed onto the top spot of the podium. He did not know at the time that a teenaged boy in Japan – inconsolable despite Dai-senpai winning bronze – did his crying for him; he found out about that later. All Victor knew was that he had been left wanting, and after two weeks at the Olympics of watching beautiful athletes sink into the kind of frolicking debauchery Victor wouldn't allow himself to admit he wanted, he was all too willing to let Artem teach him everything he knew. Life with Artem was dazzling and hilarious, a constant frenzied rush of fancy parties, shopping trips, and athletic love-making. It was every indulgence Victor had always wanted to lean into, and he deserved it, after his terrible Olympic season.

It was not perfect, and in hindsight Victor knew that he had been young, foolish, and emotionally unequipped to really build anything lasting. Artem could be callous and petty, he disliked not getting his own way and chaffed at the occasional restrictions of Victor's fame. Victor had made a career out of being malleable, but even he had his breaking points. They did not argue; Artem would push Victor too far, and Victor would bottle himself up completely, usually relying on the handy excuse of his training schedule for his radio silence. Nothing between them was ever resolved, and while Victor was willing to believe he loved Artem – enough, subsequently, to be heartbroken when Artem left him – he never truly liked him.

Because he was inexperienced, it took Victor a long time to understand that his first relationship had not been as deep as he had understood it to be, that it had been merely glittering and fun and lacking any sort of attempts at a deeper foundation at all. It didn't occur to him, when it ended, that he had perhaps failed just as much as Artem had, that in order for someone to love you, they had to be allowed to _know_ you – every part of you, not just the amenable ones. That came later, when he found himself loving someone who instinctively knew him better than he understood himself. Instead, he allowed the hurt to fuel his transformation into The Living Legend, a man with laser focus who had no time for outside hindrances anymore, because he could only find strength on his own. Victor emerged from his breakup like a phoenix: he cut his hair, cut romance out of his life, and dominated his sport so effectively, he became untouchable. He kept his heart behind layers of persona, safe, growing lonelier and lonelier, until Katsuki Yuuri shattered through all of it. Until he called to Victor – with Stammi Vincino, with a quad flip, with a golden ring on the steps of a cathedral – and Victor answered, every time, _Yes_.

"It's true then? You're living together; you're a couple?"

A microphone was shoved into Yuuri's face, and Victor smiled wide and heart-shaped above Yuuri's shoulder, the photo that would be attached to every article written about them for the next two weeks.

"Yes," Victor laughed. "Yes, it's true."

Yuuri shot him a shy little smile, and by that time, security had cut through the scrum from the other side and formed a protective perimeter around them, which allowed Victor to match up his stride and walk side-by-side with Yuuri, their hands still clasped. He wanted to pull Yuuri into him and kiss the top of his head, but pandering to the press would only make things worse, and Victor needed to sit down with Yuuri and talk about what he was comfortable with; probably also with Anna on speaker phone. He settled for squeezing Yuuri's fingers, and got another, braver smile in return.

The security team made a barrier at the base of the rink steps, giving them some breathing room to get into the front doors, and Victor had every intention of going directly inside, until a familiar voice made both Victor and Yuuri pause.

"Nikiforov-sensei," Mooroka called, and Victor turned. He looked travel worn and tired, but he was smiling politely, holding a little notepad, pencil at the ready. "You recently returned from Japan, where you were developing your programs for the season for both yourself and Katsuki-san."

Victor waited for Yuuri to translate for him, and then he nodded. He would answer any questions about the skating season Mooroka might have; Victor had not forgotten his unwavering support of Yuuri, even when Yuuri himself was convinced his career should be over. Mooroka's smile grew wider. "Can you tell us please, what your chosen theme for the season will be?"

Victor's smile was too bashful and not camera-practiced; he couldn't help it, so he lifted Yuuri's hand to his lips, hiding it and his flushed nose against Yuuri's knuckles. The way Yuuri's eyes shone and his cheeks turned pink in response was Victor's second favorite expression. He lowered Yuuri's hand, running his thumb across the back of it as he pictured his most favorite of Yuuri's faces – his eyebrows drawn down in determination, his eyes flashing in pride and the triumphant smile that broke across his face when he landed a quad flip or ran through his program perfectly, when he exceeded his own expectations – because Victor knew he'd being seeing a lot of it in the upcoming season. 

He turned to Mooroka and bowed slightly, to be polite, and because the question had been posed in Japanese and Victor knew his response would be the headlining news of every sports segment around the world, he winked and answered in the same language.

"Courage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm you didn't think you were going to go through this entire fic without an appearance of Yuuri 2: The Eros, did you? (please do go and google that cat mural at Nebar, because is is real, and it is magnificent).
> 
> once again unedited, and once again, thank you for reading!


	4. Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello sports fans! Please note that the tags for this fic have updated, and heed them! If unwanted overtures make you uncomfortable, I strongly recommend skipping the last section of this chapter, which takes place at the Cup of China. Thank you and safe reading chickadees.

The first event of the Grand Prix season that year was in Russia, and Yuuri was not competing but went with Victor to Pulkovo to see him off. They stood somewhat awkwardly beside the security gate as a few cameras clicked around them from a discrete distance. Yuuri stared at the wingtips of Victor's brogues – he'd chosen the pair with the lowest quarter, so a full inch of Yuuri's lucky blue socks was visible beneath his trouser legs – and the toes of his own scuffed addidas sambas, and Victor reached out to thread their fingers together. 

"Tell me something for luck." Victor's smile was tender and soft, and he rubbed his thumb across the tops of Yuuri's knuckles, helping Yuuri to ignore the intrusive flashbulbs.

"I'll be watching. I won't take my eyes off you," he promised, and Victor beamed at him, pulled him forwards by their joined hands, and hugged one arm around Yuuri tightly.

"I wish I could stay home with you and Makkachin," he sighed into Yuuri's shoulder.

As soon as the Grand Prix assignments had been announced, Victor had attempted unsuccessfully to convince the FFKKR that Yurio should take the second spot at Rostelecom in his stead. He'd argued that Yurio deserved to visit with his grandfather, but in fact was trying to get more uninterrupted practice time with Yuuri before his own season debut in Regina the following weekend. Yuuri had known it was a hopeless endeavour before Victor even attempted it; there was no way the Russian Federation would neglect to put Victor on their hosting roster – he had been a mainstay at Rostelecom since entering the senior division, and the ads for ticket sales were already everywhere, Victor standing on the podium at Nationals with Georgi, while Mila jumped a double axel in the foreground. It would have been impossible for Yuuri to assuage his guilt over keeping fans in Moscow from seeing Victor perform for the second year in a row. He'd let Victor run out on annual his ice show twice now to go to Japan, so he merely hummed sympathetically through Victor's final disappointed tirade, tucking the things into Victor's suitcase he was forgetting in his pique. Yuuri took it upon himself to speak with Lilia and organize training for the weekend; he wouldn't be able to work on his lutz with Yurio there, but he could at least get her opinion on his transitions.

"Travel safely," Yuuri said quietly. He folded both arms around Victor and hugged him back. "Text me when you land?"

"Yes, of course," Victor promised, and turned his face to place a soft, open mouthed, and highly inappropriate kiss on the side of Yuuri's neck, hidden from their little audience. Yuuri shivered and felt his face catch fire – thankfully buried in the crook of Victor's shoulder – and wished he was as brave in public as he had been after the Cup of China medal ceremony, where Yuuri had grabbed a fist-full of Victor's jacket lapel in a deserted hallway of the Shǒudū Tǐyùguǎn and come away from their second kiss with a lopsided grin. Instead he pecked a quick kiss to the corner of Victor's jaw and felt Victor chuckle against his ear. "My Yuuri," he murmured.

"Bring me back something else to kiss," he whispered, and let Victor go.

Yuuri stood at the gate and waved each time Victor turned in the line to blow kisses at him, fully aware once again of the photographers at his back and the fact that he was going to be in the newspaper tomorrow. Yuuri's face had been in the newspaper before, for winning and not winning, for tempting the Hero of Russia away to Japan to coach him, for stealing Victor Nikiforov's heart. Once more wouldn't hurt.

 

The afternoon of the men's short program, Yuuri was sitting on the sofa, icing his feet and trying with moderate success to prevent Makkachin from chewing each pair of balled up clean socks he was putting together from the laundry basket. Yuuri had NTV on with subtitles to fill the silence of the apartment and help him keep up his Russian, and while he tried to follow along with the newscaster as she discussed the gift of six fighter planes to Serbia, Yuuri hid the most recently folded pair of socks under the neat pile of dry fit shirts and leggings next to him, and swatted Makka's ear lightly.

"Bad girl," he murmured. Makkachin heeled, stopping herself from clambering onto the couch and disrupting both Yuuri and the clean clothes, but her tail thumped on the carpet, unremorseful. Yuuri shook his head, his lips curled up in defeat. Makkachin was not the most well-behaved dog; she was too much like her exuberant owner, but that was part of her undeniable charm.

Yuuri folded the last t-shirt and stacked everything into the laundry basket, Victor's clothes on the right and his on the left in a mirror of their sides of the dresser and the bed. He picked up his mug of tea from the coffee table and finished the last cool mouthful; Yuuri pulled his feet from the icy bucket and set them on the towel underneath, stretched his arches and felt his left ankle crack with a grimace. Lilia had worked him hard this morning, and Yuuri's feet bore all the markings of breaking in new skates and her unyielding demand for excellence. His plans for the night involved a hot soak in the tub and some well-deserved carbs and protein for dinner while he watched Rostelecom. Yuuri stretched his arms over his head and rolled his neck, got slowly to his feet and carried his mug to the dishwasher. He'd put water on the stove to poach his chicken in and was measuring rice into the Zujirushi – an incredible extravagance that had been sitting nonchalantly on the counter next to the samovar when he'd moved in – when his name, out of place in a stream of Russian and mispronounced, came out of the surround sound.

_… Katsuki Yuuri placed fourth at this year's World Championships, behind both National and European Champion Viktor Nikiforov and Grand Prix Gold Medalist Yuri Plisetsky._

Yuuri frowned and walked back out to the living room, pushing his glasses up his nose. NTV were currently showing a tiny video of him performing his free skate at Rostelecom last season in the top right hand corner, next to the sportscaster's head.

_… While the JSF made no formal move to question the results of the competition, Skate Canada and the USFS have just announced at a joint press conference that both federations have formally challenged the judging of the men's free skate at the event. The ISU are expected to proceed with an inquiry, based on the fact that both Skate Canada and the USFS have alluded to an inside source who notified them of potential foul play. While it is early in the investigation, Aleksandr Gorshkov, President of the FFKKR, said the Federation will monitor the investigation and trusts the ISU to deal with the situation fairly…_

Yuuri picked up the television remote with a shaking hand and changed the channel to Russia-1, but they were also reporting on the latest figure skating news.

_…The timing of this announcement, mere hours before the Men's Grand Prix event in Moscow, cannot be by happenstance. This is not the first time Skate Canada has bullied the ISU into investigation; any fan of the sport will remember the Salt Lake City Olympics. A change in the results of the World Championships could directly impact the standings of the Russian national team at events this season, and may specifically affect top athletes Yuri Plisetsky, competing for the first time last season at the senior level, and Victor Nikiforov, who returned to the sport this year after a brief hiatus, winning Nationals for the ninth consecutive time…_

Yuuri set down the remote and rubbed absently at his chest, where a sharp pain had suddenly bloomed under his ribs. He ought to have turned the television off and carried on cooking, or done something actually responsible like call his agent at the JSF or even Anna. Instead his feet remained rooted to the floor, and as much as he wanted to stop watching the television, he couldn't make himself look away.

_… While the top Canadian skater, Jean Jacques Leroy, finished fifth overall at the competition, many experts agree that Skate Canada and the USFS are piggybacking off the perceived slighting of Japanese National Champion Katsuki Yuuri. He was first at the World Championships going into the free skate, and ultimately placed fourth overall. His missing of the podium moved fans in the United States, who started the hashtag campaign "Gold for Katsuki" almost immediately and showered him with medals during his gala performance, despite Katsuki himself supporting the medalists in a press statement. Katsuki currently trains in Russia and will continue the awkward strategy of competing against his coach this season, which has left many fans questioning Nikiforov's ability to perform to his full potential…_

The air in Yuuri's lungs abruptly ejected with a small, painful noise. He covered his mouth with his hands and sat down, hard, his legs folding under him in a practiced collapse. Yuuri's vision started to grey out, and then a wet, slobbery tongue tried to knock his glasses off his face.

"Ugh, Makkachin! … no."

Undeterred, she climbed into Yuuri's lap and set her big paws on his chest, leaning Yuuri into the side of the couch behind him, plastering his face with kisses.

"Ah, stop! Makka!" Yuuri giggled helplessly, ticklish. "Makka, down!"

The dog plopped on top of him, focusing instead on licking his hands, and Yuuri wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into Makkchin's fur. "Victor," he sobbed softly. He tried to breathe deeply, tried to fight against the tightness in his ribs as he crumbled under the weight of a phantom gold medal on his chest that he thought he'd put aside in Hasetsu. The aching didn't subside, even when he began to notice the insistent buzzing of his phone somewhere under his hip and the smell of smoke. Not even when the fire alarm went off.

He jerked upright stiffly, choking, scrambling over Makkachin, frantically lumbering to the kitchen where he grabbed for a tea towel and didn't completely cover his palm in his haste. Yuuri yanked the dry pot off the stove and threw it into the double sink with a pained yell, he immediately thrust his hand under cold water, which hit the pot and made steam pour into the kitchen on top of the dense cloud of smoke that was still irritating the alarm in the hallway. He sank to his knees, hissing and coughing into his other fist, and faint knocking started up on the apartment door.

Yuuri swore in frustrated, exhausted Saga-ben and Makka skittered off, barking, towards the entryway.

_You're the worst what’s wrong with you you can't even do one thing right you've bothered the neighbours they'll want you to leave_

"Katya?"

He blinked and looked up; hovering over him was Elena Ivanova, the widow who lived across the hall. Her white dog, Pika, was standing behind her, patiently allowing Makkachin to sniff him. A blast of cold air made both Yuuri and his neighbour shiver – Sergei their landlord had thrown open the balcony door and was fanning his hands beneath the fire alarm, singing the same nursery rhyme to it that Victor used to tuck Makka into her dog bed. He grinned at Yuuri with a wide smile, just like the one he'd sported in March, standing at the building door behind the giant and soft-spoken first floor tenant Petr, and threatening the scrum of reporters outside that he was going to call the police on all of them for trespassing.

"Are you all right?" Elena Ivanova asked, carefully enunciating her Russian.

Yuuri had befriended Elena in his second week of living in St. Petersburg, when he'd come home from the rink and found her struggling to lift her grocery buggy up the seven icy steps in front of the building. It had been just good manners for him to offer her his arm to ensure she didn't slip as he helped her inside, and no trouble to carry in her cart once she was safely in the lobby. Victor had found him three hours later at Elena's kitchen table, a teacup of untouched black tea at his elbow, patiently listening to her stories of the Soviet Union despite barely understanding anything she was saying. Yuuri walked Pika for her when it was too cold and Elena was constantly trying to feed him, bemoaning Yuuri's slender waist as obvious evidence that Victor was starving him. Her tins of tea cookies had become famous at Yubileyny.

"Katya."

Elena shut off the water and pulled the wet tea towel out of the sink, wringing it out and wrapping it carefully around Yuuri's hand. She coaxed him to stand, leaning on the counter for support, because despite the strength of her conviction Elena Ivanova was petite, and couldn't support Yuuri's weight on her own. The fire alarm cut off with one last, final shrill cry, and Yuuri's ears started to ring from the absence.

"Sorry..." Yuuri whispered. "Sorry, I –"

"Hush now," Elena said absently, and patted his arm. To Sergei she said "I will take him across the hall, will you lock up?"

"Yes, yes, take the dogs with you please, Elena Ivanova, thank you."

"I've got them."

It was Petr's soft voice at the door, and his low whistle that summoned Makka and Pika into the hall. The commotion had also drawn out the inhabitants of the large and only apartment on the third floor below, Anatoly and his Swedish wife Freja. She had their toddler Klara on her hip, and when Klara saw Yuuri, who babysat her occasionally in the afternoons, she squealed with delight and reached her small fists out in excitement.

"Let us go down to our place, yes?" Anatoly smiled, stroking Klara's cheek with a finger. "Freyusha already has the TV on for our Victor."

 

It turned into quite the party on the third floor; Klara giggling on the rug with the undivided attention of two dogs while Freja pressed her large induction cooktop into service reheating kalja soup. Anatoly sliced rye bread and set out pickles, Petr returned from the first floor with buckwheat dumplings stuffed with mushrooms and onions, and Sergei turned up carrying a vorshmack he'd taken from Elena Ivanova's fridge, which she'd made specifically for Yuuri in anticipation of Victor's absence – with potatoes instead of cream. When Iosif Petrovich came down saying he'd heard the noise through the floor and thought they could use something to drink, he and his three bottles of vodka were welcomed readily inside. Elena allowed Iosif to pour a small glass for Yuuri while she slathered his palm in mustard and wrapped it in a cool silk kerchief.

"It will be like new tomorrow, Katya, we will not have to tell Vitya about it," she winked conspiratorially and sipped from her own little glass.

Yuuri nodded shyly and let himself be tucked into the best seat on the sofa in front of Anatoly's plasma screen; they came sometimes, for dinner and to watch SKA St. Petersburg games, and usually Yuuri and Freja were shunted to the side chairs to discuss the NHL while Victor and Anatoly yelled at the television. Yuuri ate first his soup and then a plate which Freja modestly piled up for him before Elena Ivanova had the chance, sparing him from a binge that would have make him sloppy in front of Lilia at practice the next day. He drank his vodka very slowly and let his ears get a little hot, and when the commentators came on screen between the end of the final ladies flight and the first one for the men's, and started talking quite obviously about Yuuri, he frowned and sat up a little straighter, trying to focus without subtitles to help him.

Sergei slapped him lightly on the back, knocking Yuuri's glasses slightly askew. "What are our Victor's chances tonight, hmmm Katsuki Yuuri?" His eyes were almost the same colour as Victor's, though his hair was dark. They twinkled, deep set in his cheeks as he grinned. "No one knows his music or his costumes this year, he's been so sly!"

"He likes to surprise people, he always says!" Anatoly agreed, who looked, Yuuri thought, like Evgeny Kuznetsov. "But all the girls at work are dying to know, you know. Not even a little peep about his jumps, and they say Giacometti will try a lutz in combination!"

"They! _I_ told you that, Tolik," Freja said fondly. She had her white-blonde hair in a thick braid today, Klara had lately become fond of pulling hair. Yuuri's glasses entertained her to no end, and he always came back from babysitting with them covered in tiny fingerprints. "You wouldn't know a lutz from a loop," Freja laughed.

"Ahh, but I have Yutenka here to tell me. You kick the ground for a lutz, yes, Yuuri?"

"Sort of…yes," Yuuri admitted. "Similar to a flip."

"Vitya will do a flip," Elena Ivanova said matter-of-factly. "He will beat Giacometti."

Sergei grinned at her and raised his glass. "Elena Ivanova is right, of course."

"Elena Ivanova is always right, especially about Victor Nikiforov," Iosif agreed.

"I am, you know I am Iosif Petrovich. We have lived on the same floor as that boy for a decade; no one knows him better than us."

Iosif was petting Makkachin, and he smiled down at her snout on his knee. "That may not be true anymore. And I am happy to say it."

"A very good point, Iosif Petrovich," Freja smiled. She clapped her hands, beaming wide at her daughter. "Come here Klara, let's not climb on Petr."

"It's fine," Petr said quietly from his spot on the floor, while Klara tried to stand up in his lap, lost her balance, and grabbed hard at his ear to keep her feet. Petr merely winced slightly and put his large hands out to steady her. "I am sure," he smiled shyly, "that whatever Victor has planned, it will be beautiful."

"It is," Yuuri promised.

"There you have it," laughed Anatoly. "Completely unbiased, from an expert! Now Yuuri tell me, this boy getting on the ice now, how good is he?"

Guang Hong was greeting the crowd, looking fired up and determined, and Yuuri leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. "He's going to try a quad toe right off the top I think."

The quad toe was a success, and Guang Hong scored a personal best, but he was overtaken three skaters later by Georgi's Carmen program. Everyone agreed it was a passionate but perhaps overwrought rendition of the classic; but questionable artistic expression aside, Georgi skated clean. Yuuri watched with his heart in his throat as a skater from Israel fell out of his quad salchow, and then sighed in relief when he recovered on his triple axel. Christophe's attempt at the lutz combination was two-footed and he had to downgrade the second jump; he earned more marks for the attempt though, and pulled into first with only Victor left to skate. Yuuri had spent the first flight and six minute warm-up fielding questions about the event from his neighbours between answering the dozens of notifications on his phone, texts from Mari-nee-chan and Minako-sensei and Yuu-chan, Whatsapp messages from skaters and friends. James had sent him a single photo, Yuuri sitting between Paul and James after his short program in Boston, grinning and making a peace-sign, the V of which James had drawn a heart over.

_Love you_ , he'd simply typed, and Yuuri sent him a red heart emoji in return.

Phichit's messages were smarter, two videos of him attempting a quad salchow and a string of question marks that Yuuri flagged to watch and respond to later. There were voicemails he was going to have to check after too, from his parents and Anna and the JSF, but there was nothing, no word anywhere at all from Victor, except a text from Mila that possibly explained their lack.

_I just got my phone back from Yakov, Yutenka are you okay?_

_Yes,_ Yuuri typed, _Have you seen Victor?_

_Yakov has him secluded somewhere, no one's seen him since warm-ups._

Yuuri locked his phone and set it face down on the coffee table as Christophe's score was announced.

"There he is," Elena Ivanova said quietly, needlessly, because even hunched over the boards pretending to listen to Yakov, every eye went directly to Victor, he was simply that beautiful. When the camera panned wide as Victor skated to center ice to thunderous cheers, Yuuri felt his breath lodge in his throat, and he pressed the top of his right fist into his lips.

_He knows._

Victor's costume was made of dark grey stretch velour that lightened as it climbed his chest, and a single slash of muted gold that lanced up his right arm. He had never worn a costume before without some form of glitter on it, the only thing catching the light were his golden blades, the soft curl of hair that swept into his eye, and the gold band on his finger. His greeting was very brief, and as he settled into his starting position, Yuuri could tell by the line of his shoulders.

_He's upset._

Victor was skating to Sigur Ros for his short program; three and a quarter minutes of haunting melodies from the beginning of the song Festival, which the band had rerecorded specifically for him. When Yuuri had first heard it, he'd thought Victor was setting himself too difficult a challenge; there was no discernable beat or musicality, only the soaring vocals for most of the song – nearly impossible to skate to. But the vocals built in spirals, in waves, telling the story of two lovers bracing against a storm, and this program was Victor's heart on the ice, telling the story of the World Championships. The strings opened, atmospheric, and Victor took a deep breath, his eyelashes fluttering open.

_Forget them. Show_ me _, Vitya._

His movements were sad but strong, poignantly graceful. Victor flowed, continuously drawing his arms into himself, as though he was protecting an unseen thing hidden in his heart. Yuuri watched with tearful pride as Victor landed an effortless quad flip, a quad sal-triple loop, a flawless triple axel off a spread eagle – Yuuri's own signature move.

Victor slid across the ice and he was a shelter, a support, a comfort – he was anger and sadness and melancholy hope, he was _love_ , so much love all rolled up into every stroke of his blades, the arch of his back and the gesture of his hands. And you could see it in his movement, how he'd watched someone close to him battle their grief and struggled with his own feeling of helplessness. It was aching and raw, exposed like nothing Victor had ever skated before, as though he'd unlocked a part of himself. Yuuri had seen this program hundreds of times, but it was still as exquisitely sublime as the first time – skated for Yuuri alone, in the dying summer light at Ice Castle – almost just too much for Yuuri's fragile glass heart. They'd had to hold each other for twenty minutes after Victor finished before Yuuri could even begin to articulate how much it meant to him. He was getting better at seeing it, but today Yuuri's eyes stung and Victor floated into his final position, his hands reaching imploringly towards the judges panel, the television lights of the arena glinting off his ring. Victor raised his head with tears in the corners of his eyes as the music ended, and he looked dead into the camera with an expression of mixed pain and joy.

_Victor…_

The crowd screamed when he finished, and Victor hunched over on the ice, his hands on his knees, his face hidden by his hair. He was trembling from exertion, but when he stood upright, there was a camera-ready smile plastered on his face. The mask made Yuuri's chest ache – he wanted so badly to hold Victor, to thank him, to be held and told everything would be all right in a way only Victor could say, the way that Yuuri somehow always believed. He was suddenly keenly aware of just how great the distance to Moscow truly was.

"Wow," Anatoly said quietly, and Yuuri remembered where he was. Elena Ivanova was wiping at her eyes and Sergei was openly crying; Klara had gone still in Petr's lap, sensing the solemnity of the adults.

"You were right Yuuri," Freja said, her voice thick. "It was beautiful."

"The music was very different," Iosif admitted, "but of course, perfect. Is it Swedish, Freja?"

"Icelandic," Yuuri corrected for her, as Victor skated towards the kiss and cry, waving to the crowd.

"They will complain he should have skated to a Russian composer," Anatoly sniffed. "Those fools in the FFKKR; just like that Italian song, remember Freyaninchka?"

Freja nodded as Victor reached the edge of rink; he took his jacket from Yakov and pulled on his skate guards, and then he walked right past the kiss and cry and into the backstage area without speaking to his coach. The commentators sounded slightly surprised, and Yuuri bit his lip. For a moment the camera remained trained on Yakov – sitting alone in the kiss and cry, his face slowly turning from red to purple – until Victor's marks flashed up on the screen, making a collective gasp reverberate through the audience at the rink and also the living room. The audio for the television picked up the English announcement that followed, confirming what Yuuri already knew.

_Mr. Nikiforov is currently in first place. This is a new personal best, and a new world record._

"Amazing!" Sergei cried. "He's done so well!"

"Of course he has," sniffed Elena Ivanova. "Katya has made him even better."

"Oh, I don't–"

"A toast!" Anatoly grinned, pouring more vodka into everyone's glasses. "To Victor and Yuuri!"

"To our champions," Iosif agreed, nodding at Yuuri and making him flush. All he could do was bow to show his gratitude and let everyone clink glasses with him.

"To our friendship," Yuuri said quietly, a popular toast that he meant from the heart.

On television a Eurosport reporter stood dutifully in the backstage area, reporting that Victor Nikiforov, current leader after the short program, had walked past all TV crews without stopping to answer questions. She was waiting to hopefully speak to Yakov and determine if Victor had injured himself and required immediate medical attention, as that could be the only reason he wouldn't stop for interviews. Yuuri frowned and carefully got to his feet, picking his phone up from the coffee table. It had gone into low battery mode.

"I should be going," he said, bowing his head respectfully. "Thank you so much for having me, and for dinner. For everything."

"Of course Yuuri," Freja said gently. "Anytime. Let me walk you to the door."

 

Yuuri had enough time to climb the stairs, lock the door behind him, and note that Sergei had cleaned up the kitchen and disposed of their ruined pot somewhere. When he opened the fridge to get his water bottle, three other dishes pilfered from Elena Ivanova's kitchen were sitting inside, as well as a jar of mustard with a happy face hand-drawn on the label. Yuuri fiddled with the kerchief around his palm while he sat in the middle of their bed, and plugged in his phone, waiting. He slipped into a near daze that made the vibration startle him when Victor called.

"Hello."

"Yuuri?! God lyubov… tell me where you are."

It was a new nickname, and it made Yuuri's insides flutter, a strange sensation when coupled with the tensing of his shoulders at the pained sound of Victor's voice.

"I'm here," he said, and he meant, _with you, always with you_. "I'm in the bedroom. Makka is with me."

"I'm coming home. I'll be on the first flight I can find, yes? The very first one –"

"No."

The phone went almost deadly silent, as if Victor had hung up, but Yuuri could hear him faintly breathing, shallow and quick.

"Don't…" Yuuri's thoughts scrambled in his panic. "You don't need to do that. You… Victor – you should stay and skate. Your fans –"

"The only fan I care about is you Yuuri! I am coming home."

The warring emotions jostling for control in Yuuri's ribs made him slump backwards; it disrupted Makkachin, who simply turned three times and planted herself half on his stomach, looking at him with large, imploring eyes. Yuuri gently took hold of her dog tag, pressing his thumb into the cool metal and the etching of her name in cyrillic. The back of his throat hurt, and Yuuri struggled to keep his breath even by counting the light bulbs suspended over the bed. It was difficult to speak above a whisper.

"I want to see you skate. Vitya, please."

" _Sweetheart._ "

"I want to skate with you at the final," Yuuri lied, or told the truth, he wasn't quite sure. But he'd made a selfish decision in March and he couldn't go back on it now. "Please. What... what do you need, to stay?"

"Can I see you?"

Yuuri lifted his phone away from his face and switched to video, turning on half the overhead lamps. It bathed both him and Makkachin in soft orange light, making them appear cozy in the miniature picture on Yuuri's phone.

"Oh…" Victor said softly, his gorgeous, sad eyes impossibly fond. He looked dishevelled; his hair askance and his nose flushed hot, and Yuuri ached, desperate to reach through the phone and touch him.

"You were beautiful tonight," Yuuri breathed. He couldn't help himself, and Victor deserved to blush for a better reason. " _So_ beautiful. Thank you Victor, your program… I loved it."

"Really?"

He nodded, not trusting the lump in his throat, and Victor smiled, soft and tragic. "That's better than a world record."

"Do you want to come home?" Yuuri whispered.

"Yes," Victor sighed in frustration. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "And no. Rostelecom is a curse for us, I think. I am furious with Yakov… I wanted to forfeit but he refused to do it."

It would have been a tragedy if Victor had, if the world had been denied the masterpiece he'd put onto the ice that evening. Yuuri curled onto his side, letting Makka cuddle up against him, helping him stay brave.

"It's only an inquiry. It's nothing… it's fine. Skate Canada are probably just worried about the Olympics, so…"

Victor just watched him for a moment, and then shook his head. "I need you tell me what you want me to say, solnyshko. When I step out of this room, there are going to be cameras."

"Tell them you're there to skate. It's not about you – "

"Yuuri."

"– as a skater. Answer them as a skater."

Victor's eyes sharpened, his voice far too impartial to not be shielding his hurt. "And if they ask me about my _partner_ , about the man I'm going to _marry_ , how do you want me to answer?"

Yuuri pressed his lips together against the sound that tried to come out from between his teeth, but he couldn't do anything about the fat tear that leaked down his left cheek. He touched the back of his ring with his thumb, and then raised his hand to his lips, pressing on them lightly. He felt too overwhelmed, the ragged edges from his very emotional evening arresting his tongue, but he tried wordlessly to convey his feelings. And Victor, who always met Yuuri wherever he was, who _knew_ , understood.

"Okay," Victor breathed, his face melting into something impossibly tender. "My Yuuri, that's the best answer."

 

* * *

 

Yuri was supposed to be at Yubileyny for conditioning work that afternoon, but did not go immediately to the rink for practice. Instead, he took the tram in the other direction, to Lilia's studio. He was wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and he had tape in his bag that would do for his feet. He wanted to practice his exhibition; since watching the short program last night he'd had the music on loop, loud and demanding in his ears, the heavy base pulsing through his Beats headphones and blocking out the sounds emanating from the second largest practice room.

At the doorway, Yuri's mouth fell open, and he had enough presence of mind to silence his own music before pulling off his headphones, their noise cancelling properties falling away to reveal the loud and assertive strains of Sia as he backed out of the doorway so Yuuri wouldn't catch sight of him. But he didn't retreat, he stayed fixed in the darkness of the hallway, unable to look away.

Sweat was making Yuuri's shaggy hair clump around his face and neck, and he wore nothing except a woman's kerchief tied around one hand and black leggings that at first glance Yuri thought were bike shorts, then realized had simply been cut by Yuuri at some point to end abruptly where his thighs started to thicken out from his torso. He was barefoot, basically in his underwear, and when Sia thundered over the beat that she was alive, Yuuri launched himself across the room in a leap with so much height and distance, so much reckless abandon, that it looked like he was trying to throw himself against the wall. Yuri gasped and his hand raised involuntarily in a halting gesture, but Yuuri landed on the floor with a practiced collapse, the kind they taught you very early in figure skating, simultaneously with your waltz jump. He rolled onto his hip and smacked his hands twice, hard on the floor before twisting himself upright, following the sound of the music, seeming to make it with his own movements.

Yuuri went up onto the balls of his right foot, his left leg bent so his curled toes grazed the floor, his arms thrown back behind him, palms out, and his face tilted up, elongating his neck, his eyebrows and lips such a mask of desperation that it raised goosebumps on Yuri's skin. Yuuri spun then, his arms came up to make a graceful frame and his left leg kicked out; he caught himself on it and bent back almost double with his right leg extended up into the air, before twisting upright again and throwing himself across the room once more. Yuri's breath lodged in his throat; he'd been dancing with Yuuri for months, both in Lilia's classes and together in their exhibition training, but Yuuri had never danced like this in his presence, ever. It was raw and powerful and like nothing he'd ever seen before and Yuri had known Katsudon was a good dancer but he'd had no idea Yuuri was _this_ good.

Yuuri leapt upwards, spinning once, twice, three times, then four and a half turns, and he landed hard on one foot, the other leg opening out behind him, his arms out at his sides for balance. He used the momentum of his free leg to twist, crumbling in on himself, sitting on the floor and burying his face in his hands as the music ended. He was breathing hard, his shoulders trembling, and he threaded his fingers through his sweaty hair, pulling the top of it together and securing it with the electric blue elastic band he had taken to wearing on his left wrist. He stood and shook out the loose ends at the back of his head, and Yuri realized Yuuri was crying. Careful, silent tears that slid down his cheeks and disappeared into the sweat on his body, and when he opened his eyes, dark and large and so hopelessly sad, he was the most tragically beautiful thing Yuri had ever seen.

He looked right at Yuri, and his expression immediately closed off.

"Katsudon," Yuri croaked, jerking forwards and upright, catching himself on the door jamb because his legs felt a little weak now that he was trying to move them. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yuuri–"

"Sorry, do you have practice in here?" Yuuri said abruptly.

"What? No," Yuri shook his head. "Was that… did you just do a quad axel?"

His face darkened, that look from the banquet, and Yuri realized that he was angry, angry and trying to hold it in. Yuri blinked and didn't understand why. "It was, wasn't it?" he frowned.

Yuuri looked away, his lips set in a thin line. "I'm using this studio Yurio," he said quietly.

"Teach me!" Yuri demanded, stepping into the room with his shoes still on in his excitement. "Teach me to move like _that_ , that was fucking awesome!" If he could move like that, if he could do a quad fucking _axel_ , Yuri would be unstoppable this year.

Yuuri sighed impatiently and he walked towards the door. He set his hand on Yuri's shoulder and backed him up a few steps. "Sorry," he said softly with a firm shake of his head, his large eyes apologetic, an awkward smile crooking only the corners of his lips. He looked at Yuri for a moment and then he carefully shut the studio door.

Yuri stared at the door, first in disbelief and then in indignation, disappointment and hurt crystalizing into something sharp and furious. He spun abruptly on his heel, jammed on his headphones and scrambled to find the latest mix Otabek had sent him. On his phone was a neglected text to Victor, read at 8:47pm but still waiting for a response.

_was it you?_

Yuri was tempted to tell Victor to fuck off and turn off read receipts if he wanted to be such an asshole, but he opened instead his Whatsapp conversation with Beka, who would at least empathize over Katsudon being an entitled dick, and reread their last messages.

_Skate Canada is fucking crazy if they think JJ should have scored higher!_

_Yes. But Katsuki deserves the inquiry, I'm glad they spoke up. It must be hard for him to have to go through this again though._

_Do you think the ISU will change the standings from Worlds?_

_I don't know. But my federation wants me to come in for a meeting next week._

_What? Why?_

_They want to talk to me about the Grand Prix Final._

The cold air on the sidewalk outside made Yuri's eyes sting, and he swiped a hand across them brusquely, hunching against the encroaching St. Petersburg winter in his hoodie and leather jacket. He gave up on texting and shoved his phone into his pocket. Yuri didn't have a world record anymore and federation executives in several countries were now working to undo every international achievement he had won for himself last year in what many had called the greatest senior debut of all time. He was a fraud and he didn't want the medals; they _should_ be awarded fairly, they _should_ go to the right person, but it still fucking _hurt_.

 

* * *

 

Victor took a small drink of his wine and cut a piece of filet mignon, listening half-interestedly to the wife of some commissioner talk about the construction of her new dacha. Three tables over, Mila leaned back in her chair and caught his eye; she crossed her eyes briefly before returning her attention to the table of sponsors, officials, and Russian elites she was otherwise supposed to be entertaining. Victor smiled softly and ate a piece of roasted beet. Just one more course, and then he would be free. Victor was planning to make as early and exit as possible, perhaps he should extend the offer to Mila as well. 

Their waiter arrived with a bottle of Zhuravli and a wink for the man sitting two seats over, who's name Victor had decided not to remember. He was round and jovial looking, though his ability to hold a monopoly in state-operated plastics processing plants betrayed a more cut-throat personality. Why he was also a member of the FFKKR was a mystery, but Victor preferred to ask less questions about his own Federation; it made it easier to flout them for his own ends when he didn't know exactly who he was crossing. Once a round had been poured the man lifted his glass in a toast, smiling at Victor. 

"To another wonderful showing and gold medal," he grinned, taking a sip and smacking his lips. "And I think I speak for us all, when I say it's refreshing to see you today without your yaposhka shadow." 

Next to him, his wife tsked and put her hand on her husband's forearm, like he was a toddler who'd gotten into the jam. Her smile was made crookedly symmetrical by two gold teeth. "Now Mishka," she tutted, "don't talk that way about Victor's little boyfriend, that's not polite!" She winked at Victor in a way that was no doubt meant to be supportive and companionable. 

Victor set his cutlery down a little more forcefully than was necessary, but he'd been putting up with barbed comments of this ilk from officials all weekend, and given the racial slur, he felt it was permissible. 

"Katsuki Yuuri is my fiancé," Victor corrected, his lips curled upwards into the smile he'd perfected with sponsors. Easy, non-threatening, and completely empty. He reached out with his right hand to lift his water to his lips – blatantly ignoring the glass of vodka in front of him – the gold ring on his third finger on prominent display, proud that his hand remained completely steady. He sipped his water and set it back on the table, and that gold toothed-smile faltered, but the Italian judge sitting next to Victor gave him one that was genuine. 

"How lovely!" he exclaimed in accented English, placing a hand on the back of Victor's chair. He had warm brown eyes and steel-grey hair, and his suit was clearly bespoke, which Victor could appreciate in the sea of ill-fitting off the rack Armani currently on display. "Congratulations to you both; my partner and I just married last summer, after being engaged for almost twenty-five years – I wish you both a speedy nuptials."

"Thank you," Victor said softly, relieved and truthful. He raised his wine glass in a small toast that the judge was happy to reciprocate. The meal passed much more pleasantly after that; Victor could largely ignore the other occupants of the table while Paolo kept up a constant discussion about wedding planning information and travel tips for Milan – making it impossible for anyone to bring up the ISU's investigation. They were scrolling through photos of Paolo's husband and three dogs when dessert was cleared and people started to disburse. Paolo took a knowing look around them, and patted Victor's hand. "I should be all right to get up now, Victor, the wolves have left."

"Ah." Victor smiled ruefully. "I was truly enjoying our conversation, though!" 

"I'm glad for it, but I don't want anyone to think you're currying my favour," he grimaced. "And anyway, I believe there is someone far more important than me on their way to speak with you."

Walking towards their table was the President of the FFKKR; Aleksandr Gorshkov had been a decorated and legendary ice dancer in his prime, and his position in many was as a figurehead for the larger workings of the Federation. Victor had long respected and liked him, but given the events of the past year and the announcement from Skate Canada, as he watched the President approach over Paolo's shoulder Victor was carefully wary.

"Aleksandr Georgievich," Victor greeted him politely, getting to his feet and holding his hand out. 

"Victor Nikiforov." He clasped Victor's hand warmly. "I'd like to talk to you, and you must know the Federation is desperate, to send this old man to appeal to you."

"Nonsense, you could still skate laps around me." Victor picked up his wine and shared a wry look with Paolo before he let himself be steered away from the table, towards a less occupied corner of the room. 

"I was very fond of your gala performance at the World Championships." Aleksandr said when they were more alone, honesty that Victor was completely unprepared for. "It takes a great deal of trust and love to skate like that. The way your partner moved reminded me of Lyudmila."

Victor gave the President a small, polite smile, ignoring the stinging feeling in his eyes. "Thank you very much, Yuuri will be honoured to know that."

Aleksandr nodded, pleasantries dispensed. "Now then. To the task at hand. The Federation has been approached by the Russian Olympic Committee, they need our help. There's to be a hearing regarding our involvement in PyeongChang, and they'd like a delegate from the Federation to speak, amongst other athletes."

Victor's smile grew sharp; that was all he could do in the face of such sheer audacity. He had been ignoring several emails and voicemails from the General Director on this subject, who had obviously decided that Victor needed to don his mantle as the Hero of Russia and use his status as the reigning Olympic Champion to charm the IOC. The list of potential candidates was fairly short after all – in the wake of the doping scandal from Sochi, Victor had been one of the few Russian athletes to maintain his medal, and only because he was clean and had been smart enough to ensure he had samples independently tested outside of Russia before, during, and after the games to back up his results. Victor was certainly the most high profile medalist available to the ROC, and his appearance at the hearing would make it international news. The husky and haunting voice of Valentin Piseeve floated unwelcomed into his thoughts.

_You are an investment on which we expect returns, Victor…_

"Why ask me?" Victor sighed quietly. "Does the Committee need me to carry the flag for them again, so they can pretend nothing happened in Sochi?" When Aleksandr gave no reply, Victor pressed his lips into a thin line and looked around before stepping a bit closer. "Why ask me, when the Federation won't even allow me to compete fairly?"

"What happened last season was… regrettable," Aleksandr frowned. "You must know it wasn't my decision, Victor."

"It was regrettable," Victor agreed, the wine in his glass sloshing faintly as his hand shook, "and very eye-opening. Perhaps for everyone now, yes?"

The President did not rise to the bait. He smiled tightly and ignored Victor's comment. "We had hoped you would be keen to plead your case; you're going for your second consecutive Olympic medal." 

Victor grit his teeth, his smile so practiced it hurt his molars. He'd wanted that desperately in Vancouver, and there had been a time, after Sochi, when he'd thought about it. A time before Yuuri. "I have two gold medals already; three if you count our team medal, which I am sure the Federation does. I'm sorry Aleksandr Georgievich, but I don't think I am the best person to represent the Federation at the IOC hearing. I'd hate to say something the Federation will regret."

"I'm sorry too," Aleksandr said, and he looked like he really was. "I am not supposed to tell you, but I believe if you do not cooperate, the ROC and the Federation will work to revoke your Russian sponsorships."

Victor's smile had no humour in it, but he gave it to the President anyway. Victor was a dutiful Russian son, and so naturally he had been preparing his whole life for when his hard work and dedication paid off too much, and those above him tried to take it away. He kept no assets in Russia except a chequing account, into which a monthly allowance was deposited for living expenses. He rented his apartment and leased his car, and his credit cards were linked to his Swiss accounts, which were kept in Euros, American dollars, and lately, Japanese Yen. He had a stable of Russian sponsors, but they were small compared to his international deals, and more lucrative contracts with Japanese brands – a market previously closed to Victor – were starting to take shape now that his relationship with Yuuri had been publicly confirmed. Whatever the Federation did to him, it wouldn't hurt him, and it wouldn't hurt his ability to support Yuuri or the Katsuki family, either.

"Of course, the Federation will always do what it thinks is best," Victor said tightly.

"I believe also," and here the President looked as though his words were distasteful to him, "that the fees associated with your skater's training will no longer be charged on the national scale."

"Russian resources for Russian skaters," Victor murmured, the same flat mantra that Yakov had been hammering at him since Yuuri moved his home rink to St. Petersburg. None of Yuuri's ice-time was actually his, it was Victor's, the ice surrendered or split to accommodate him. But Victor had been able to work with that; he got Yuuri extra time at a private rink, he found an unexpected ally in Lilia, he moved their dry training to an exclusive gym, instead of the facilities at Yubileyny. He booked all of their specialist appointments himself, instead of through Yakov with the rest of the team. He managed it, because he wanted to skate and he needed to coach, and he _loved_ Yuuri – waking up next to him every morning was worth the extra planning.

"I appreciate the warning," Victor said, shaking the President's hand for offering Victor this kindness, "and your concern. I will of course eat the extra costs personally."

Alexsandr's eyes widened. "Victor..."

"The Federation is foolish, if they think I will allow them to bleed dry the JSF. My own opinions aside, that is very poor sportsmanship. I would suggest reconsidering this tactic before I am asked to speak about the World Championships with the ISU."

"I appreciate the warning," the President smiled sadly.

Victor just rolled his shoulders, still smiling in a way he absolutely didn't feel, but was very practiced at. He finished the last, large mouthful of wine in his glass. "It seems I am in need of a top up. Will you excuse me?"

He found Mila at the bar, flirting with a skater from the Czech Republic, and Victor signaled to the bartender over her shoulder. He ordered a neat glass of Mamont, which he chose because it was grassy and sharp; something more fitting to his current mood. He turned away, drink in hand and looking for Christophe, when he was confronted by a tall and immaculately dressed Russian woman. 

"Inessa Anatolyevna, nice to see you," Victor smiled. Inessa was responsible for his contract with Kalina, and Victor typically spoke with her at Rostelecom every year. "Please, let me get you a drink."

"Actually, Victor," she smiled somewhat uneasily, "I was hoping…I'm sorry, but I saw you with Mila Babicheva and I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. It's about your contract…"

"You want to discontinue it," Victor said quietly, careful to keep his smile small and even, his eyes open and receptive. Inessa flushed under his polite gaze.

"I'm so sorry Victor, it's not my decision, but the board thought, with the Olympics coming up, it would be a good idea to have someone… someone a little more…"

"Patriotic?" Victor offered, and laughed lightly when Inessa blinked at him, confused. "There's no need to apologize, of course. I understand. I assume you have someone else in mind?"

"Well, yes. Mila Babicheva, I was hoping I could talk to you about a sponsorship."

Mila's mouth opened, her cheeks red and her eyes flashing, and before she could say anything too hotly, Victor set two fingers on her arm. "Mila would be a perfect fit for you, Inessa Anatolyevna, she is, after all, a champion." He smiled winsomely at the two women, his fingers pressed a little too hard on Mila's bicep. She would be fantastic for Kalina, she needed the money, and Victor wasn't going to let her throw it away. 

"And beautiful," Inessa agreed, which made Mila blush. 

"Well, I will leave you two to discuss the particulars. You can send a Termination Agreement to my agent, I will sign it once she's had a look." 

Mila fiddled with the hem of her skirt, chewing her lip, and Victor smiled encouragingly. If he'd retired last year, this would have happened anyway, and Anna had already been pushing Victor to fold his contract with Kalina in favour of the much better joint offer currently on the table from Shu Uemera. He'd been hesitant because Kalina had been his first ever sponsor, and incredibly loyal to him even before he was consistently winning. "Please excuse me," he said. 

On his way across the banquet, Victor lost two more sponsors with the same forced, polite grace. His patience with the entire room was wearing dangerously thin, and he stole away – out a side door, down a hallway and out onto a roof-top patio, sheltered from the harsher aspects of the Moscow cold by the remainder of the hotel tower – with the intention of giving himself a little space to get control of his emotions. Instead he found Christophe sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, taking a long drag from a slender, lavender coloured cigarette.

"Those are bad for you," he admonished, something he'd told Christophe several times over the years about his penchant for Sobranie Cocktails when he was drinking.

"Old habits, cherie," Christophe murmured around the gold filter, but out of respect for Victor's lungs he dropped the rest of the cigarette, half smoked, onto the decking and stubbed it out with the toe of his moccasin. He patted the chair and Victor sat primly next to him.

"Taking a break from your admirers?" Victor asked softly in French, smoothing his trousers and shaking his hair back from his eye to peer up at the city-dampened stars.

"Ah, none of them can compare to you, of course," Christophe laughed. He winked at Victor and then he switched to English. "Want to tell me what's wrong?"

Victor smiled at him, to hide his uncertainty. "I'm not sure I-" he started, but Christophe cut over him smoothly.

"How is Yuuri?"

"Fine," Victor lied. He felt bad about it though, so he offered Chris a bit of truth in return. "I miss him."

"If I had an ass like that in my bed every night, I would be lonely without it too," Christophe said, which was far too familiar and coarse for Victor to like. "Truly a Living Legend. Victor Nikiforov, the most decorated men's figure skater, and yet his greatest victory is getting Yuuri Katsuki to notice him."

"You're jealous." It was supposed to come out teasing, but Victor didn't quite keep the realization out of his voice.

Christophe shrugged. "I don't think I'm Yuuri's type." He winked and then he smiled gently, folding his hands in his lap. "I'm happy for both of you, of course. I've known Yuuri for a long time, longer than I've known you. He seems… more complete? No, that's not the right word." Christophe thought for a moment and then he shrugged again and switched to French. "With you, he's arrived."

Victor nodded, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, Victor helplessly remembering that Chris had competed a great deal against Yuuri in Juniors because of the smaller gap in their ages and the less aggressive transitioning of skaters to the senior division that both their federations favored. Victor was not stupid – he had spent more than a few evenings trailing after Christophe post-competition in a gay club. Yuuri was beautiful, a fantastic dancer, had slept with more people than Victor, and navigated his sexuality much easier than Victor did. He didn't want to think about the familiarity with which Yuuri and Chris had curled around each other on a stage partition at the Sochi Grand Prix, or the fact that Christophe used Yuuri's first name, and Yuuri – incredibly sensitive to the formality of addressing a person – used Christophe's much more intimate shortened one.

"Josef says he's the one to beat this year."

Victor inclined his head once, slowly, for the complement. "He's worked very hard this summer."

"Victor if you have to come to Lausanne, I mean, if the two of you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

It was from a kind place, but Victor was so exhausted, and he didn't really know how to deal with Christophe outside of the friendly, bantering rivalry they typically kept up. He'd spent the entire weekend with a hole in his heart, being strangled by the ribbon of a medal that didn’t belong to him, and the only thing that was going to remedy either of those things was having his fiancé folded up in his arms. Victor flipped his hair out of his eye and smiled. "I liked your exhibition today, it was from your first year of seniors, yes?"

Christophe made a knowing face. "I'm thinking of bringing it back this season. A few different ones, actually. Maybe _Lets Have a Kiki_."

"I loved that program," Victor laughed, and it was true, he had. He'd admired Christophe for skating something so bravely, the season after he'd officially come out, and amidst all the backlash leading up to the games in Sochi. Victor hadn't been able to publicly say it, but he'd felt immense pride, standing rink side as Chris undulated to Scissor Sisters in a leather harness and silk shorts, knowing Putin was in his private Olympic box to watch Victor skate after him.

"I love it too. Maybe I'll do it at Europeans just for you, ma cherie. Although I was thinking it'd be perfect for PyeongChang."

"Oh? You're planning to be on the podium a lot this season, Chris." It was playful, but Christophe didn't tease back.

"No, but this will be my last opportunity to be on them."

Victor didn't know what to say, but Chris didn't apparently need him to say anything. He patted Victor's knee and smiled. "You've had one surgery, but I've had four. Things get painful around Nationals and don't really let up; I'm lucky I finished where I did at World's. I'd like to not have to walk with a cane for the rest of my life."

"It's time then," Victor said quietly, and Christophe nodded.

"I'll try to get a top ten for the Federation, and I think I'd like to give Yuuri a challenge for the Grand Prix. He stole my silver, after all."

"Yuuri's aiming a bit higher than Grand Prix silver this year."

"Good. I'd hate to see some teenaged Russian kid upstage him at the Olympics, when everyone knows it's his to win."

Victor flushed and rolled his eyes. "Hasn't Switzerland forgiven me for that yet?"

"Never cherie, you know that," he laughed. "If you wanted people to like you, you probably should have dominated skating for a different Federation."

The joke was a little too close, and Victor looked away before laughing and clapping Chris on the shoulder. "Right! I'm going to run to the little boys room, and then head back in," he lied with an apologetic smile. "I'll see you inside."

It was still too early for him to slip unnoticed from the banquet, but at this point, Victor didn't care. He walked briskly along the hallway, the fingers of the hand not clutched around his vodka already digging into his jacket pocket for his keycard. He took the elevator all the way up to his suite and kicked his shoes off, flicked on the light in the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, and then he climbed into the bathtub and set his drink carefully on the edge, pressing his stocking feet into the cool porcelain of the tub wall as he stretched out. Victor loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt while he set his phone to his ear. Yuuri picked up on the sixth ring.

"Victor?"

It sounded small, quiet, but not too wounded. Victor tilted his head back against the tiles. He was cold from being outside, but the chill made him feel safe. "Hello, zolotse moya," he said.

"Ah, hi." There was some background noise that sounded like Yuuri was getting up from somewhere, and the familiar tinkling of Makkachin's collar that suggested she was following him. "One second, I am just going to our room. I just got out of the bath…"

Victor tensed his toes and rolled his neck. If he stretched his biggest toe, he could have turned on the tap and let warm water flood over his trouser legs in a similar sensation to the heat pooling in his stomach. "I thought you were staying at Lilia's?"

"Mm, I did yesterday, but the reporters figured it out…"

"And here I thought they were all in Moscow," Victor sighed. "Let's move, hm? Get a little place in New Holland."

"I like our neighbours, though. Petr walked me home from the rink today."

"That must have been a refreshing change of pace for you," Victor smiled. "Does Petr run at all?"

"It did take a bit longer," Yuuri admitted. "Vitya… why aren't you at the banquet?"

"It's nice to hear your voice," Victor said softly, ignoring Yuuri's question. He ran the tips of his fingers around the rim of his drink, but didn't pick it up. "You were right, we shouldn't separate for competitions."

"We don't have to now, until Nationals."

"Mmm, maybe I'll skip Nationals," Victor sighed, and as soon as it was out of his mouth, he was aware of how true he wanted that statement to be.

"Victor," Yuuri breathed, tight and Kyushu-rough, his usually controlled accent drawing Victor's name out with consonants and vowels it didn’t possess, and sending a delicious shiver running down Victor's spine. "I won't let you down in Regina."

"I know you won't. You could never, my darling."

"I'm going to win gold. And after we skate in the Grand Prix Final, I'm going to take you to the Olympics!"

Victor sat straight up in the tub, nearly knocking his glass of vodka flying, his heart thundering in his ribs. "Yuuri!"

"So please… please continue to believe in me. Please take care of me."

"Oh, Yuuri." Victor bit his lip and then he whispered "Please take care of me too."

"I will. Vitya…"

Victor waited with his heart in his throat, hardly daring to breathe.

"When is your flight?" Yuuri asked, in a tone far too tender for such a simple question. "When are you coming home?"

Victor's flight was booked for 10am the following morning; the itinerary was currently posted to their fridge and colour-coded into their training schedule on the iPad, but that wasn't what Yuuri was asking. It wasn't what he was _saying_. There were Aeroflot flights out of Sheremetyevo every hour until 1am; Victor checked his watch.

"How soon can you be at the airport lyubov?"

 

* * *

 

St. Petersburg saw Yuuri off to Skate Canada with hundreds of flashbulbs and screaming reporters. Yuuri clutched Victor's hand like it was a lifeline, ignoring the questions being hurled at him while pushing his brand new, sponsor-provided Kuboraum A1 sunglasses higher up his nose. Yuuri had never owned sunglasses other than cheap combini ones for the beach; it was a bit startling to be able to see clearly through the tinted glass, but he'd never been more humbly grateful to suddenly be in possession of eight pairs of new frames or that he'd succumbed to Victor's suggestion that he bring a few to be photographed in. He'd also let Victor convince him to wear the fancy designer coat – which had been sent to Victor but wound up in Yuuri's side of the closet when it was suspiciously too tight on Victor's broad shoulders, but somehow fit Yuuri like a glove – and Yuuri checked his messages upon arrival at their layover in Toronto to find several incredulous and increasingly sassy texts from James demanding to know when Yuuri had bought himself a Dior. Yuuri ran a hand over the soft, multi-coloured wool, currently folded over the handle of his carry-on.

"Vitya?"

"Mm?"

Victor was currently browsing through Burberry, looking like he hadn't just spent ten hours smooshed into Yuuri in a sleep pod despite his dark circles. The girls working behind the register kept shooting Yuuri judgemental glances over what was probably the sheer audacity of his wearing sunglasses inside, coupled with the juxtaposition of his rumpled appearance to the immaculate Russian supermodel he'd walked in with. Across the store, a salesclerk with over-drawn eyebrows and a thin goatee who Yuuri had accidentally bumped into earlier was aggressively refolding sweaters that didn’t need it. Yuuri pulled a silk scarf from a display to hide his rising apprehension, edged in light pink and adorned with golden roses. "Do you think Elena Ivanova would like this?"

Victior tapped his lip with his forefinger for a moment, considering. "It's very pretty, lyubov," Victor agreed finally. "Let me charge it? I am getting a few other things."

Yuuri searched around for a price display, chewing his lip. "Do you think it's nice enough, to replace the one she gave me?" Victor didn't know what the stain was in Elena Ivanova's kerchief, only that their drycleaner hadn't been able to get it out. The silk scarf in his hands certainly felt very smooth, like the fine kimono his mother only wore to weddings, but Yuuri didn't really have an eye for that kind of thing; he just knew Elena liked pink.

"I think she'll be very happy with it." Victor plucked it from Yuuri's hands and then took a black edged one from the display, the plaid center surrounded by bright pink, red, yellow and blue scribbly flowers. He folded it in half and then pulled it around Yuuri's neck and tucked it into the collar of Yuuri's dark blue sweater. "Yes," he said to some unasked question. "Antonio!"

The clerk with the sweaters appeared to have an out-of-body experience as he scrambled to Victor's side, who didn't take his sparkling blue eyes off Yuuri's increasingly heating face as he held out the pink scarf and the hangers looped over his wrist. "All of this please, and the scarf he's wearing."

Victor's accent was thicker than normal, and Yuuri felt like a tomato about to burst open in an oven.

"Of course, sir, will that be on credit?"

"Oh no," Victor smiled, reaching out to set the tip of his finger on Yuuri's heated cheek. "I have a complementary account."

 

"You didn't have to be so dismissive with him," Yuuri muttered later on their connecting flight to Regina, quietly revelling in the slip of the silk under his sweater, which had fallen lower and now barely peeked over his collar, like a secret. Victor just pinched his nose.

"Anyone with eyebrows that offensive deserves it."

 

Regina, blissfully, was a complete one-eighty from St.Petersburg. Yuuri stumbled hand-in-hand with Victor to the baggage claim, and they were just two bedraggled travelers in a host of them arriving at a small, unassuming city in the middle of a wide, expansive prairie. Yuuri had been to Regina before – both he and Phichit had been invited once or twice to tour with Stars on Ice – which meant Yuuri knew enough to book them into the more up-scale and discrete Hotel Saskatchewan, down the road from the official ISU accommodations and with a lobby mercifully free of both reporters and competitors. Victor collapsed appreciatively with limbs wide and starfished onto their king-sized bed, and Yuuri was able to muster the fortitude to ignore Victor's plaintive, sing-songy calls of his name and grabby hands only long enough to hang his costumes and coat up in the closet.

Open practice was more of a reunion than anything else; there was Patrick, and JJ and Leo – mainstays of the North American circuit, where Yuuri had been handily avoiding competing against Victor for years – while the other disciplines boasted Japanese teammates, old rink mates from Detroit, and ice show acquaintances. Yuuri managed three full run-throughs while a small cheering section of other skaters encouraged him from the kiss and cry, and he was able to avoid doing interviews before the competition thanks to his knowledge of the hallway system at the Brandt Centre and the uncanny happenstance of Victor or a skater he was friendly with materializing to claim Yuuri's attention every time a reporter attempted to approach him with a question

The evening of the short program dawned clear and cold, with a sharpness in the air to rival St. Petersburg. Yuuri escaped to a loading dock to do his breathing exercises and watched local fans stream into Mosaic Stadium next door, impervious to the freezing temperature and eager to watch their local CFL team. The white noise of their cheering was a comfort – whatever Yuuri did here tonight would be relegated to second behind the real sporting event in town – and as each bus, proudly displaying "FOOTBALL", dropped off more fans, Yuuri felt the tension in his shoulders and the tightness in his chest seep out into the brisk air. He told himself this was a known entity, a Skate Canada GP event, something he'd done a handful of times before, and that therefore there was nothing to fear. Yuuri had proven, to fans and federations and judges, and even himself, that he was capable of doing anything he set his mind to, and Yuuri had set his mind, this year, to win.

The loading dock door creaked open, letting out a burst of warmer air and fluorescent light, blending around the shape of Victor, leaning against the mag-locked pushbar.

"Thirty minutes, Yuuri," he said, in the smooth and professional tone that made up his coaching voice. There were no nicknames on competition day.

Yuuri shuffled inside, blowing on his cupped, red hands. "Will you tie my skates?"

Victor tilted his head to the side, his coach's façade cracking under his tender, soft smile. "So spoiled," he whispered, and took Yuuri's hands in his own, warm enough to make Yuuri gasp a little at the difference. "Come, I have your things ready in the locker room."

 

Yuuri kept his new black and neon green team jacket on for six-minute warm-up, and he staked out a corner of the practice room to stay loose in, working on his choreography with his earplugs securely blocking out most noise and Victor watching carefully over him. He did not watch Leo's solid performance or JJ's wobbly but more technically difficult one, who sat in second and first respectively when Yuuri took off his skate guards and stepped carefully onto the ice. He did a few turns, wind-milling his arms to heat up his torso. When he was satisfied he wasn't going to freeze, he set his teeth into the collar of his jacket and unzipped it with one hand, shrugging it off and passing it to Victor and causing the audience to shriek in delight.

"This is my favourite costume in your career," Victor said solemnly, folding Yuuri's jacket over his arm.

Yuuri shivered even though he didn't feel cold, smiling faintly. "Just have that coat ready in three minutes."

Yuuri was wearing black pants of soft, clinging velour, and the top half of his costume was made of three layers of fine netting, the exact colour of his skin, into which thousands of rhinestones and tiny glittering beads had been strategically sewn with thread-of-gold. A pattern of cracks, thickest over his left shoulder, spilling over his back and chest, and down his left arm. He'd explained the concept to Victor when they'd been discussing their costumes, and Victor had latched onto it, producing three sketches from his designer that had ultimately convinced Yuuri to let Victor have it made. No one had known it at Rostelecom, but it was a call to Victor's own short program costume; if Yuuri held Victor's right hand in his left, the gold of their costumes met in a continuous line.

Yuuri skated to centre ice to thunderous applause and with the feeling of Victor's lips on his ring finger burning into his hand. He pressed the kiss there to his own lips before settling into his starting position: head back, arms at his sides. Yuuri liked the moment before a program started. It was the last time of possibility, where something wonderful still had the potential to happen. He liked that it was a time of anticipation, of forward momentum. There was no fourth place, no scoring inquiry, no past season. There was only Yuuri, the ice, and what was going to happen _now_. The rink was lined with banners for him, slogans in both hirigana and the roman alphabet, and the crowd had cheered for Victor at open practice. He seemed himself today – like he'd finally shaken the off all of the dark mood Yuuri suspected had been brought on by the sponsors dinner in Moscow. Yuuri wanted to skate for him, wanted Victor's wide, heart-shaped smile. He took one deep, cleansing breath, and exhaled into the start of his program.

_I can be_ more _, because you believe in me._

Yuuri had found this music almost by chance – he'd fallen into a rabbit hole of lo-fi Youtube videos studying for his exams in his first year of college, and wound up abandoning his theory text altogether to replay the song, tracing choreography across his notes. It was a recording of Ave Maria – certainly not a new piece of music to figure skating fans – but this one was an instrumental performed by Yo-Yo Ma, the delicate and haunting notes of his cello softly accompanied by a bright, gentle piano. All that had prevented Yuuri from taking it immediately to Celestino had been the length of the piece, slightly too short for the standard two minutes and fifty seconds. He'd carried it in his back pocket all that time, until now, when the twin opportunities of Otabek's ability to add an extra few counts and a world class choreographer of a fiancé with music licensing connections finally presented themselves. And Yuuri hadn't been ready, back then, like he was now, to do the piece justice – he hadn't fully understood all the shapes that heartbreak and disappointment could take, and how you could put them aside in a rising, overpowering hope, fueled by someone's unshakeable belief in you. He hadn't known what it was to be loved, and what it was to love yourself.

If Victor's program was the story of the World Championships, then Yuuri's was the story of his off season, of the arms he woke in, in St. Petersburg and then in Hasetsu, and the quiet promise he made to himself; it was a call to something higher, something beautiful, something that made him brave and helped him keep going – something that had been uplifting Yuuri from the very beginning, and something he was determined to protect. Victor's love was both Yuuri's shelter and his spark, and Yuuri let it wash through and over him, made it move him, sent it out onto the ice and into the audience, his music building and providing the background momentum for Yuuri to launch into a quad loop. The edge of his skate connected with a loud, assured _shack,_ everything clicking perfectly into place, and he heard Victor's ecstatic yell somewhere over his shoulder through the cheers of the crowd. Yuuri didn't have time though, to celebrate landing his first loop in competition. He was in the second half of his program now, and he'd back-loaded all his jumps again.

_Watch me Victor, this is for us._

Yuuri landed his quad toe-triple toe combination, dipping into a lunge before he threw himself into an upright combination spin as the music swelled, deep, sad – but recovering. A layback, a catch-foot, a Biellmann; and he did not travel as many other skaters had earlier that day. Yuuri was in the exact spot he should be, his step sequence carrying him over the ice and into an inside outside spiral before he jumped a triple axel. It was perfect too and Yuuri headed into the last sequence of his program, every movement deceptively soft, each stroke of his skates seeming lighter than air, powerfully controlled on his tireless legs. Yuuri flowed into his final position, his golden chest bared wide as he spun out before slowly drawing in his arms, tight and safe around himself, his chin lifted and his face open and yearning.

_We belong_ here _Victor. You and l, and no one can take it from us._

The audience erupted into a deafening roar, blocking out the pounding of his heart in his ears. Flowers and toys pelted the ice, and still, still, gold medals. Yuuri pressed his hands to his eyes, leaning over and breathing deeply, sheltering his face from the audience and the television cameras. He felt happy and sad at the same time, and it was a private emotion, to be felt alone at center ice and just for himself. When he straightened there was a tight smile on his face, and he bowed deeply in gratitude and relief to the audience at Skate Canada for their support at this, his first competitive skate since the World Championships last spring. As he did one final turn at centre ice, waving, something landed on the rink at his feet. 

Lying face up was a hand-crocheted chibi Victor, dressed in his Stammi Vincino costume and sporting a heart shaped mouth. Yuuri picked it up with a delighted laugh and admired how well made it was as he skated towards the kiss and cry, holding it up as he gave the crowd one final wave. He had it tucked in the crook of his elbow as he came off the ice and into the real Victor's warm embrace; Victor's eyes were a little misty, and Yuuri pressed one hand over Victor's heart as they hugged, to steady him.

"Fantastic, Yuuri," Victor hummed into his ear. "Gorgeous. How do you feel?"

Yuuri just nodded, shrugging slightly. "Good," he whispered. He didn't know how to explain that everything had felt right, but also not enough yet.

They let the hug last longer than they would have last season, and then, because they had agreed on it beforehand, Victor gave Yuuri a brief, chaste, congratulatory kiss on the cheek as he handed Yuuri his skate guards. Catcalls rippled through the arena, and Victor blushed and winked; the cheers turned into laughter and then soft "awwwwws" when Yuuri buried his embarrassed smile in the crook of Victor's neck. He set down the handmade toy as they sat waiting in the kiss and cry to put on his jacket; Victor picked it up and fondly inspected it while Yuuri drank his water, and then suddenly Victor was laughing, using it to press pretend, heart-shaped smile kisses to the side of Yuuri's face, making ridiculous smacking noises to accompany each one. Yuuri giggled helplessly into Victor's shoulder, and when they announced his score, he was thirty points above JJ. Not quite enough to break Victor's world record, but a new personal best, and it was early in the season. 

 

When Yuuri came from the kiss and cry the next day with his fifteen points secured, he was swept immediately into an interview before Victor could properly congratulate him, and Victor had to relegate himself to standing behind a camera man and admiring the dewy glow of sweat on Yuuri's cheeks instead. Yuuri wiped at his face with the corner of the collar of his jacket, smearing lilac glitter everywhere, and blinked a few times through his nearsightedness as Paul Martini waxed poetic about his free skate. When Paul brought it up, Yuuri smiled ruefully and admitted to a balance issue when he'd fallen on his double axel late in the program.

"Still, Yuuri, a stunning skate. Talk about your inspiration for this year?"

"Ah…" Yuuri's eyes shifted almost imperceptivity to where Victor was standing outside of the camera's range. Victor smiled back at him encouragingly, and it must have been a good smile, because it made the corners of Yuuri's lips turn up. "I suppose… this year I have many goals – I'd like to make the Grand Prix Final, and of course, there's the Olympics. I want to do my best for my country, and that's inspired me to work hard."

Paul nodded all through Yuuri's explanation, but he asked his next question as though he'd been waiting for Yuuri to finish.

"Everyone watching last year could see you had a bittersweet ending to your season," Paul started, and Yuuri froze, his fists curling into his costume behind the press barrier, where the camera couldn't see. "How much does it mean to you, to come into this, your first competition of the season, and win gold?"

A little line between Yuuri's eyes appeared, and Victor opened his mouth to spout upbeat praise and shut the rest of the interview down like he had been doing all weekend, but Yuuri spoke soft and determined into Paul's microphone, and surprised him.

"It wasn't bittersweet," he corrected firmly. "It was the best season of my career, actually." Yuuri's face broke into a hesitant, beautiful smile, and the tip of Victor's nose caught fire. "I'm proud of what Victor and I accomplished together last year. I'm proud of myself, of everything Victor helped me to achieve."

"You certainly achieved a great deal! You've said you're working towards the Grand Prix Final and PyeongChang, with Worlds now under inquiry, many skaters have said they feel more inspired, knowing the ISU is reviewing last season closely. Has that motivated you at all?"

"Our sport is a competition," Yuuri said carefully; his eyebrows set and his eyes flashed, but his voice remained even and  composed. "But it's mostly a competition with yourself. I want to improve, and so my focus is on _this_ season; it has to be, in an Olympic year. All I can really control is my own performance, and I'm proud of the way I skated here this weekend. I hope to continue to skate programs I can be proud of."

"Thank you Yuuri, congratulations again, and all the best to you this season."

"Thank you, Paul."

Yuuri stomped carefully into the backstage area for skaters, and as soon as the curtain fell closed behind them, he was reaching back for Victor's hand. Victor let Yuuri's fingers clasp around his; Yuuri's hands were cold.

"Sorry about the axel," he muttered, and Victor lifted Yuuri's hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. They could talk about that ill-advised tano attempt later, it wasn't what was important right now.

"I'm very proud of you, zolotse," Victor breathed against Yuuri's knuckles. He pulled Yuuri in close by the same hand, ignoring the squawk Yuuri made when he toppled into Victor, slipping in his hard guards.

"I want to kiss my gold medal!" Victor sang in Russian, hoisting Yuuri up with an arm around his waist and pelting him with wet, open-mouthed kisses all over his salty, glittery face until he was squirming and giggling. "Kiss, kiss, the most beautiful medal…!"

 

Yuuri woke up the morning of the gala with watery sunlight streaming into their room. Victor was curled warm around him and it was the easiest thing in the world for Yuuri to turn in his arms and kiss Victor fully awake, stroke his hands over Victor's body and take him apart the way Yuuri liked because he knew Victor liked it the most; slow and tender, spending time and care. Afterwards they stood under the hot water of the shower, washing each other's hair and helping to scrub soap into each other's backs. The bathroom was too small for them to shave or brush their teeth together, so Victor did a mask while Yuuri took care of his grooming, and then he surrendered it to Victor while he dried his hair in the hallway, using the mirror on the back of the closet door.

"Your hair is getting so long, solnyshko," Victor said quietly. He was leaning against the doorjamb, a small piece of tissue soaking up a spot of blood on his chin where his razor had nicked him.

"I should cut it when we get back to St. Petersburg, otherwise Minako-sensei is probably going to hold me down and do it herself in Osaka."

"I like it, though," Victor protested, smiling. "But it is a bit bulky; you just need someone to thin it out a bit. I could do it for you?"

Yuuri turned to look at him, and Victor unfolded his arms to reveal the pair of hairdressing scissors in his hand. Yuuri had lived with Victor for over a year, but had somehow missed this small, fascinating fact.

"Do you cut your own hair?!"

"Yes, sometimes I do," Victor said proudly. "I travel too much for regular barber appointments, so I learned how to trim it myself." He held out a hand to Yuuri, who let himself be coaxed into the bathroom and made to sit on the closed seat of the toilet, a large towel wrapped around his shoulders. "I try to do it when I'm in a hotel, because then I don't have to worry about clean up in our bathroom. My hair is hard to see on that tile."

There was a lot that Yuuri wanted to unpack in that, mostly the weird thrill of heat that shot up his spine at the phrase " _our_ bathroom" of all things, but Victor's hands were massaging into his scalp, taking sections of his hair and pinning it up and away with his endless stock of sliver bobby pins. It was soothing, and Yuuri let his eyes slide closed.

"Why did you cut off your hair?" Yuuri asked quietly.

Victor's hands stilled against his head, and Yuuri's shoulders darted up to his earlobes. "You don't… you don't have to tell me – I… I shouldn't…"

"It was just time to."

Yuuri turned to look up at him, feeling as sad as Victor looked calculatingly unaffected. "Vitya…"

Victor squeezed his shoulders and smiled, the fake smile that Yuuri hated so, so much. "I wish sometimes I had met you earlier, lyubov," he said lightly – too lightly, which meant there was a deep truth behind it. "It was cumbersome, and I didn't like people pulling it." He shrugged, still smiling.

When Victor had debuted his new hairstyle in an pre-season article, Yuuri had stroked the page with the very tip of one finger, amazed at how much more obvious the haircut made Victor's sharp jawline – at how it transformed his fey features into something declaratively masculine. It was the summer he admitted to himself that Victor was more than just a skating idol, that the way Yuuri felt about boys was more than just friendship. He felt terribly, terribly guilty, knowing that under that piercing gaze in _Skating_ , Victor had probably been hurting.

"I was getting too broad shouldered to really pull off that hair at that point."

Yuuri disagreed about that – Victor could have hair to his ankles, could even be _bald_ , and he would still be beautiful and breath-taking. He took Victor's hands from his shoulders, and Yuuri pressed a kiss into each palm before holding them in his own. He looked into Victor's delicate blue eyes, and tried to reach the thing that was hiding behind them.

"You'll tell me, please, Victor… if I do something… if–"

Victor inhaled sharply through his nose, but he leaned down and kissed Yuuri. "Yes, I will. Thank you sweetheart." He squeezed Yuuri's hands. "And you'll tell me, yes, if something upsets you?"

That was harder, but Yuuri nodded. He would certainly endeavour to try.

"Good," Victor smiled, the soft one that belonged to Yuuri. "Because I don't have as much experience at this as you."

"But I'm not..." Yuuri shook his head, took a deep breath, and regrouped his thoughts. "I'm so happy; it doesn't matter, because you're perfect for me."

"Yuuri," Victor said, pressing a hand to his watering eyes, his smile enormous. "If you say things like that and keep surprising me this haircut is going to turn out ghastly."

"Sorry," he smiled. "Sorry my Vitya, but… just… are you? Happy, as well?"

"Oh Yuuri…" Victor got down on his knees to fold Yuuri into a hug that was so warm and tender it was almost heartbreaking, and Yuuri shifted slightly to be able to gently, carefully, stroke his fingers through Victor's short, ash-blonde hair. He was never going to pull or grip it tight again. When Victor spoke, the words he said were breathed right over Yuuri's heart.

"I've never been happier in my life."

 

Victor's instagram was flooded that day with photos: the two them grinning into the camera on either side of a sign reading "I love Regina!"; Yuuri hesitantly posed in front of the provincial legislature building, warily eyeing the Canadian geese on the lawn next to him, who were returning the look with what appeared to be open hostility. There was a video of Yuuri doing a series of fouettes at the Trafalgar overlook and then turning out of them to exclaim, delightedly _Vitya, it's snowing!_ and Victor's responding laugh. There were dozens of posts from the gala skate, but the one that got the most likes was posted first. It was the crochet Victor doll someone had made, and the matching Yuuri in his blue Stammi Vincino costume that had been thrown to the ice after his free skate, tucked in together in the hotel bed, holding hands over the duvet. Victor had tagged it simply: _#Happiness_.

On his way to China, just about to board his plane, Phichit smiled to himself and liked it.

 

* * *

 

The music at the Cup of China banquet was shit – the whole event was shit. Yuri was still seething about his third place finish, behind Chulanont and Lee Seung Gil, angry because he was going to have to go to the NHK now and throw down with the pig, who already had fifteen points. Everyone knew Victor was going to get thirty, and it was a dick move of him to postpone it until the last event so everyone had to scramble ahead of him. 

Yuri was pissed at Victor for swanning into Moscow and having the nerve to break Yuri's record but not even _try_ to touch Yuuri's. He was pissed at Yuuri for landing a loop and a flip in his free skate and then eating it on a routine fucking double axel, overbalancing a tano that Yuri could do in his sleep. He was mad at both of them, at every stupid person currently at this gala, at the ISU in general for creating a protocol that stipulated he had to attend such a lame party. He glared into his vodka-soda, his second one, or perhaps third, Yuri couldn't quite remember. They didn't have cranberry juice and he was mad about it; he'd complained to Beka and his iMessage was still unanswered. Nothing was going his way; Phichit had beat him with a fucking quad salchow he hadn't even had last year – too much a perfect carbon copy of Katsudon's not to scream of his assistance – and Lee had been technically perfect but he looked about as irritated over placing second as Yuri did about finishing third. 

"Excuse me, are you Yuri Plisetsky?"

He straightened, eyes narrowing, ready to tell whoever this person was to go straight to fucking hell, but when he looked up he was met with a deeply dark pair of large, almond shaped eyes, smiling at him behind simple glasses. 

"Uh… yeah…" he said eloquently, but the man attached to the eyes just smiled broader. He was young, his black hair cut sleekly short, and well dressed. He offered his hand for Yuri to shake.

"I'm Marcus," he said, his accent slightly British. "I'm here with Lufthansa; can I get you a drink?"

Yuri shook his hand hesitantly. "My coach handles my sponsorships," Yuri told him, "and I think our team is sponsored by Aeroflot."

"I can still get you a drink though, right?" Marcus winked. In spite of himself, Yuri smirked.

"Whatever. Yeah, I guess so."

 

Marcus brought Yuri three drinks in succession, two more vodka-sodas and then something very sweetly fruity that tasted like a million dollars. He was kind of cool, full of hilarious airplane mishap stories, and incredibly knowledgeable about the international flight rules for cats. He improved Yuri's mood tremendously, enough that when Marcus suggested they go for a walk, Yuri, loosening his tie in the heat of a banquet full of morons he didn't want to be around, readily agreed. They set out on a loop of the hallways at the convention centre, and three quarters of the way back to the banquet, Marcus stopped in a darkened side hallway.

"You know, Yuri, you're really pretty." Marcus set his palm on the wall next to where Yuri was leaning against it. 

"Uh, thanks," Yuri said, fiddling with the leather cord around his wrist. Lots of people called him pretty, but Yuri wasn't quite sure how he felt about it. His face felt like it was on fire and is stomach felt a little squiggly. "I think I need a drink of water."

"Especially when you blush," Marcus grinned, ignoring him. 

Yuri wrinkled his nose. "I'm going back to the banquet," he said, pushing off from the wall. 

"Don't go yet." 

Marcus grabbed his wrist and his chin and Yuri was an Olympic-hopeful athlete, he was strong and he had a wicked spin kick, but for some reason his entire body froze. Marcus leaned in and Yuri's stomach heaved, his eyes wide, stinging with tears.

_No, no! Yuuri help me!_

"Yurio?"

A light flashed, bright and surprising, across Yuri's field of vision, and he felt Marcus let go of him.

"Oh! And the sponsor from Lufthansa! How are you?"

_Phichit._

He was grinning, eyes sharp above his phone. The flashlight was on and it was clear from the way he was holding it that he was filming. "So crazy, finding you two out here! Yurio-kun, I thought we were going to dance to Single Ladies together, you promised!"

Yuri did not remember any such promise, but he was still frozen, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. "You know, I was really looking forward to it, because, you gave me your _permission_ ," Phichit continued. "Do you know, sponsor from Lufthansa, about asking for permission? It's easier to get it though, isn't it, when you've been giving someone drinks all night like several people have watched you do. Actually, I'm not sure I know what the legal age of consent is in this country, maybe I should poll my snapchat followers? I bet one of them will know!"

Marcus straightened abruptly, backing a few steps away from Yuri, and Phichit stepped into that space, his phone still trained on Marcus' face. "It's not like that," he told Phichit stiffly. His eyes darted towards Yuri, looking apologetic and perhaps a little afraid. "I'll leave."

"Great!" Phichit smiled, but there was a fiery look in his eyes. "You should probably talk to your company, I'm not sure Yuri or I would be interested in seeing you at one of these events again."

He stood there, phone still focused on Marcus' retreat until sure he'd left, and then Phichit turned off his camera and locked his phone. He turned to Yuri, his black eyes gentle. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Yuri nodded, but his legs chose at that moment to give out, and he crumpled sideways, sliding down the wall. 

"Oh, okay! We're sitting," Phichit said. He sat down on the floor beside Yuri and waited silently next to him until Yuri started to uncontrollably shiver, and then Phichit took his jacket off and set it around Yuri's shoulders. "Hey. Hey, lūk mæw, it's safe now, okay? We will stay here as long as you need to."

"Th–thanks…" he stammered, burying his face in his hands. 

"Of course. Are you cold? If you want, I can put my arm around you, but only if that's okay."

"Could, fuck – yes, could you…" Yuri's words were choking him, but Phichit put an arm carefully over his shoulders and Yuri sagged gratefully into his side. They sat that way for a long time, until Yuri felt like it was okay to lower his hands from his face. Phichit was calmly scrolling through twitter, but he set his phone down when Yuri stirred. 

"That was… I've never kissed anyone before…" Yuri said. He felt tears sting his eyes again, and Phichit rubbed his back.

"Well, you haven't yet," Phichit said with a smile. "When it does happen, it will be with someone you chose and make you feel nice. Not like this, okay? You have to be careful at these things, Yurio-kun. Don't drink so much."

"Your first… was your first kiss with someone you –"

"It was," Phichit said gently, smiling. "It was someone very important to me, and it was special. That'll happen for you too, Yurio-kun."

Yuri bit his lip, and he felt the traitor tears that were leaking down his face. "I thought it would be like – we went out, this summer. Mila and… everybody. Beka was there…"

"Those are people you know," Phichit said softly. "When you aren't with friends it’s a good idea to be more cautious. Man, am I glad Yuuri-kun asked me to look after you tonight!"

Yuri felt like his stomach was in his toes. "He did?" he whispered.

"He thought you might be a little down about placing third, you weren't answering his messages. He just wanted to make sure you were okay. I had so many people wanting to talk to me though; it's good Seung Gil saw you leave."

"Yuuri is a good friend," Yuri said quietly. 

"The best," Phichit agreed, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

It was hard, because he'd never really even admitted this to himself before tonight, but there was a sudden, painful clarity happening somewhere inside him, and he desperately needed Phichit to _know_. His head felt so fuzzy and his chest so tight, he didn't fully understand himself or what was happening to him, but he didn't think he could push it aside or keep it inside anymore. Yuri drew up his knees and buried his face into them, his voice muffled through his suit pants.

"I think I want to… I want my first kiss to happen with Yuuri," he said, his voice breaking on the last syllable of his name. 

Phichit made an exasperated sound that surprised him, but the laugh that followed was fond. "Of course you do, lūk mæw! Yuuri-kun is gorgeous!? And he's also _nice_. He's the nicest person any of us will ever meet. There's nothing wrong with being attracted to Yuuri, everyone is!"

Yuri groaned faintly into his knees, and Phichit pulled him in again into a one-armed hug. "Is this the first time you've had a crush?"

"Yeah… but I don't know if I… does it mean I'm…"

"Oh, well." Phichit's hand stroked carefully along Yuri's arm, and his tone turned very soft.  "Only you know the answer to that, Yurio-kun. But I want you to know that whatever that answer is, you don't have to be afraid of it. I promise, whatever the answer is, we're all here for you, that won't change."

Yuri sniffled and nodded. Phichit was rocking them, very slightly, back and forth, and it was making his stomach feel a lot better. 

"Yuuri-kun was my first crush too," Phichit admitted. Yuri could hear the smile in his voice. "And you know, he was really helpful to talk to; it can be hard, when you're figuring things out, but Yuuri is so assured about that part of himself, and he's a great listener. He really helped me – you should talk to him about this. Not the crush part! That would probably send him into a spiral, but if you need somebody, when you get back to St. Petersburg. If you need someone to talk to about the crush part, here." Phichit held his phone out, open to a new, blank contacts page. "Put your number in there. I'll text you, and then you'll have mine."

Yuri typed his information into Phichit's phone, and handed it back. "Did you ever get over it, the crush on Yuuri?"

"Nope!" Phichit laughed. "We're really good friends, and he's really happy now. But if Victor ever turns out to be a war criminal or something, I'm not saying I wouldn't think about it."

"Yeah," Yuri sniffed. He smiled shyly at Phichit, who winked at him, like they now shared a secret. Yuri supposed they now shared several secrets, but it didn't feel uncomfortable or awkward; in fact, sitting there with Phichit felt… nice. He had a nice smile and he was really good at putting on eyeliner – winged just a little bit, at the corners of his eyes, to show off their shape. And because Yuri felt so safe, he leaned his head back against Phichit's arm and sighed. "Do you ever wish the World Championships hadn't happened?"

"Yeah," Phichit said quietly. "Sometimes I do."

"I want to win. I don't want to feel guilty about it, but I do."

"It helps to remember that you worked hard. And that Yuuri wouldn't want you to feel sorry for him." Phichit laughed; a short, bright thing. "He'd hate that actually. So we'll both have to do our best to give him a fair fight!"

It twisted in Yuri's gut, and he pressed the back of his hand to his eyes. "Yeah. I think I'm okay to go back now," he said.

"Sure!" Phichit stood up and then helped Yuri to his feet, taking his jacket back. He checked his watch as he fixed his cuffs. "It's going to wrap up soon, so let's get you back before your coach loses it. I'm surprised Ciao Ciao hasn't sent me a text."

They walked towards the banquet, and just outside the doors, Yuri stopped, suddenly shy. Phichit gave him an understanding smile. "Do you want to hear a good thing, Yurio-kun?"

"Uh, sure."

"JJ announced on twitter that he's pulling out of the rest of the Grand Prix series."

"That's fucking _amazing_ news!"

"Right? One less competitor to worry about," Phichit laughed.

Yuri was not sure exactly, what possessed him – one minute Phichit was laughing and the next, Yuri was stepping into Phichit's space. He pushed up onto the balls of his feet and pressed his lips into the corner of Phichit's mouth. "Uh… thanks…" he stammered lamely at the floor, and willed it to open up and swallow him.

He felt Phichit's hand squeeze his shoulder. "Your first kiss, Yuri. Thank you. I'm flattered! Let's go find your coach, okay?"

Yuri nodded, immensely relieved. Just like Phichit had promised, his first kiss had made him feel nice. He followed Phichit into the banquet, smiling, thinking maybe the Cup of China was not so bad after all, and the smile stayed on his face as Yakov lectured him about disappearing the whole way back to his hotel room. Before he went to sleep he flipped, once again, through his photo album from Nebar, pausing for a long moment over the selfie of him, Yuuri and Otabek. He set it as his lock screen, and tumbled into a deep, untroubled sleep.

The next morning at breakfast, he was back to his original assessment of the Cup of China being the fucking worst after waking up to a vicious hangover, several embarrassing memories that he once again hadn't managed to drink himself beyond remembering, and text from an unrecognized number on his phone. 

Three hamster faces, and _Morning Yurio-kun! Safe travels, say hi to Yuuri for me!_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuri Plisetsky and the no good, very bad season of figure skating?
> 
> (you can come into my house and yell at me on tumblr)


	5. Two Records, One Champion

The Osaka Municiple Gymnasium might as well have been a shrine to Katsuki Yuuri; there was not a flat surface or bit of wall that wasn't covered in his likeness. Yuri gripped the handle of his skate bag so hard his knuckles went white, stomping through the registration area and glaring daggers at every single replication of the pig's stupid face. He'd come to Japan directly from the Cup of China – his flight out of Beijing had been delayed, and he'd stumbled off the plane and straight into an eight-foot advertisement for Tatcha, featuring Yuuri barely wearing a kimono in a traditional Japanese garden, shadows dappling the very exposed skin of his legs and chest. Yuri still hadn't answered Phichit's text, although Phichit had taken it upon himself to send several more. Pointless, quick messages: photos of his trip back to Thailand, cheerful missives, and Beyoncé lyrics styled as inspirational quotes.

Yuri ground his teeth and shoved his way through the rink doors, only to be blindingly assaulted by flashbulbs and TV lights. A throng of reporters at least fifteen deep were half-circled around Yuuri, helpfully stood on an upturned bucket so everyone could get a clear shot of him. He was dressed to skate though wearing his glasses, but the first thing Yuri noticed, and subsequently hated himself for, was that sometime since departing for Canada Yuuri had gotten a haircut.

"Get moving, Yura," Yakov rumbled behind him; he'd caught up to Yuri and was wearing both their badges. "Skates on, and then I want warm-ups in five sets."

Yuri muttered something under his breath that it was better for Yakov not to hear, and started edging his way around the press scrum. The movement drew Yuuri's eyes, elevated above everyone as he was, and a beaming smile broke across his face, squishing up his eyes and making him look ridiculous. He waved hello with his hand at his waist, and Yuri rolled his eyes with a  grimace and kept going. He missed the way Yuuri's smile fell, but not the thin lipped frown on Victor's face, standing a short distance away with Yuuri's skates, before it was replaced with a dazzling smile.

"Welcome back to Japan," Victor said jovially. There was something rough in his appearance despite his tone, something sharp in his eyes, but Yuri was too annoyed to devote any time to figuring it out.

"Save it, old man," he hissed, and stalked past Victor even faster. No one was on the ice for open practice yet, but several skaters were warming up around it – Yuri plunked his bag down on a bench next to where Emil was doing his dry warm-up. He gave Yuri a friendly nod and was likely about to say hello, but Yuri wasn't in the mood to socialize with his competitors either.

"How long has that been going on for," he said indignantly, thrusting his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the press conference by the doors.

Emil squinted across the ice and then shrugged. "Katsuki was already here when I arrived. He rarely skates in Japan outside of Nationals, so it must be exciting for his fans!"

"You know a lot about him," Yuri sniffed. "Are you one of his fans or something?"

"You're not?" Emil looked at Yuri like he might have grown two heads, and one of the heads had just spoken a scandalous falsehood. "He's the world Junior record holder. And he's undefeated in the Challenger's series... the only reason someone else won last year was because Katsuki didn't participate. His triple axel-"

"Is bullshit!" Yuri growled, which was an outright lie. No one currently in the men's field had a better axel than Yuuri, not even Victor.

Emil's lips curled into a grin as he folded in half at the waist to grip his toes. "Then I guess yours won't need a tano, yes?"

 

Victor and Yuuri were not staying at the official hotel, but instead commandeered an entire ryokan on a hidden back-street to avoid the press, where they had to step over a snoring Minako and at least one Katsuki every morning on the way out for their jog. It took Okasan less than a day to endear herself into the kitchen, and while there was no onsen, the furo was large enough that they could sink into it together. It was as close as they could get to Yuu-topia without physically being there, and if the set-up of the dining room was different and the hallway slightly narrower, the rough Kyushu accent heard over the table at meals was exactly the same.

Victor was pleased with the attention to detail; Yuuri's agent at the JSF had nearly bent over backwards to provide even the minutest requirement he'd supplied. The schedule was cleared at a nearby rink, two state-of-the-art gyms were put on alert, and a studio provided for Minako's use. Victor didn't ask for it, but a private box at the competition rink was set aside for the Katsuki family, because the venue itself sold out in ten minutes in anticipation of Japan's Ace competing on home soil. Yuuri had denied the magnitude of his star-power with a lot of mumbling and pulling on the hem of his shirt, and Victor had just kissed him on the nose and made sure all the merchandise sold at the event was licensed back to his fiancé.

Dinner at the ryokan that night was a loud, laughing affair; the Nishigoris had just arrived that afternoon, and Okasan was eager to celebrate the wins at Rostelecom and Skate Canada. Victor let Takeshi pour him several dishes of sake and it almost took off the remaining edge of his anger with Yurio. It did nothing for the thudding ache at the base of his skull that had begun to build as the press ate into Yuuri's ice time, made worse by the terrible run-throughs Yuuri put up at open practice. Victor's bones felt like they were made of water, like he'd expended the same amount of effort as a grueling day of practice. He watched the triplets demonstrating their waltz jumps for Yuuri, who laughed and clapped, delightedly proud at their wobbly attempts.

"Yuuri-kun, can we sit with you in the kiss and cry?!" Loop begged, tugging on Yuuri's sleeve.

"Ah…" he scratched the back of his head, looking at Victor for help.

"Bring them to practice for the gala," Victor offered, and Yuuri made a frustrated noise.

"And if I don't make the gala?"

Victor arched an eyebrow at him, but Yuuri shook his head. Yuuko set her hands on her hips, giving her children a stern look. "Yuuri-kun needs to focus tomorrow! You three can't be running around backstage!"

"We'll be good, we'll stay with Vic-chan!" Lutz shouted in protest.

Hiroko gathered all the little girls up into her motherly wake with a warm smile. "Who will explain the rules to me, hmm, if you are with Yuuri-kun? Mari-chan and I need you." She winked at Victor.

"Ah yes," Yuuri agreed. "Hmm… Can one of you tell me my first element in my short program?" He tapped his face thoughtfully. "Was it a Y-spin?"

"It's a step sequence Yuuri-kun! You do this!" Axel cried, panicked he might have forgotten, and shot to her feet to take up Yuuri's opening position and demonstrate. Her sisters followed suit, the three of them moving in almost unison across the floor, while Yuuri nodded appreciatively and filmed them on his phone "so he'd remember his program". Mari tapped Victor's shoulder.

"Oi, smoke break?" she asked.

Victor nodded and got to his feet. He didn't like smoke but he enjoyed fresh air, and he liked Mari's stoic company. They stood in companionable silence in the ryokan's back garden, Victor with his hands shoved into his pockets, and Mari taking slow, even drags from her cigarette, much like they had used to do last year in Hasetsu behind Yutopia, except Makkachin would have been sniffing and pawing the ground around them.

"Everything okay?" Mari asked suddenly.

"Yes," Victor said, in Japanese. Mari's English was the second best in the Katsuki family, but Victor wanted to be polite.

"You seem… far," she said. "You are drinking a lot, did something happen with Yuuri-kun?"

"Does he seem upset?" Victor pushed his hand through his hair.

"No, no. He is himself," Mari smiled slightly, holding up a hand. "I am talking about you."

Victor rolled his shoulders. "I don't understand," he admitted, smiling apologetically.

Mari dropped her cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it under her foot. She waved her hand in the universal signal for "don't worry about it", and patted Victor's shoulder.

"Have fun tomorrow," she said.

 

* * *

 

Yuri was skating in the top flight and he pushed off onto the ice for six minute warm-up, trying to ignore the excited applause and deafening screams of _Katsuki-kun!_ that swelled into the arena when Yuuri followed him onto it. Yuri skated in a slow, small loop with his hands on his hips during the introductions, watching Yuuri bow briefly to each side of the arena, his face frozen in a startled smile at the overwhelming response from the crowd. Yuri's lip curled – Yuuri was the _National Champion_ , why couldn't he fucking act like it? – and he skated back to Yakov at the boards as soon as the lights came back up. "Can I have my phone?

Yakov did not allow them to listen to their own music on the ice; they had to be ready and receptive at all times for his criticism, but he passed Yuri's iPhone over the boards without comment, his eyes glowering towards the other side of the kiss and cry, where Victor was waving at the crowd. "Always a spectacle–" he began, but Yuri jammed his headphones into his ears and skated off so he didn't have to listen to the rest. He scrolled through his library until he found the latest mix Beka had sent him, and he dialled the volume up as loud as it would go. Yuri immersed himself in the thudding base and screaming vocals, and while it didn't quite block out the noise of the crowd each time Yuuri did something, it definitely prevented him from hearing the skater beside him when he did a choctaw turn in preparation for his quadruple toe-double toe combination.

"Yurio!"

The impact set his teeth chattering, and Yuri was staring up at the overhead lights of the rink without really knowing what happened. One of his earbuds had fallen out and Yuri experienced the disorienting confusion of Yuuri speaking Japanese over Dillinger Escape Plan. He turned his head; some kid with Yu-Gi-Oh hair was sitting on the ice with Yuuri leaning over him, dazedly nodding.

"Watch where you're fucking going!" he growled, pushing himself up on his elbows.

"Go–gomen…" the boy breathed, and Yuuri squeezed his shoulders, which just made Yuri angrier.

"Who the fuck are you? Do you know who you just skated into, asshole?!"

"Yurio!" Yuuri snapped. " _You_ skated into Minami-kun, that's enough! Are you hurt?"

He blinked at Yuuri for a minute, the set of his eyebrows and the _I can't believe I have to put up with your shit, too_ look on his face, and then Yuri barked one sharp, frustrated laugh, shaking his head. "You know what, fuck this," he muttered, hauling himself up onto his feet. His left side hurt, but he set his chin. "Stay out my fucking way – both of you – for the rest of the weekend."

Yuuri's lips formed into a thin line, and he _ignored_ Yuri. He skated a little half circle to sit on the ice in front of Whatever-The-Fuck-His-Name-Was, putting his fingers gently on the boy's ankle and speaking to him again in Japanese. Yuri felt his entire body tense up, anger like static electricity hissing under his skin. He jammed his headphone back into his ear and launched himself down the ice into a quad lutz because fuck Katsudon, fuck that kid, fuck this entire tournament he was going to win here and send Yu-Gi-Oh home crying into the pig's fucking shoulder – for the briefest moment, spinning four revolutions in the air, he had it, Yuri was on top of the world and he was the best – and then his landing foot betrayed him, it caught too far on the edge and he crashed to the ice in a heap. He grit his teeth as he got back to his feet, and met eyes across the rink with Victor.

His lips were set in the same thin line, and it was Victor who looked away first. He shook his head and picked up Yuuri's things, walking away to meet him at the other end of the rink, where Yuuri was helping his teammate skate to the zamboni entrance.

"And fuck you, too," Yuri seethed.

 

The referee called for a brief delay in the proceedings and pulled all the skaters off the ice. Yuuri stood in the medical area, letting Minami hold his hand while the JSF team trainer tested the rotation of his ankle. A frantic steward arrived to apologetically inform Minami and his coach that they couldn't indefinitely hold up the competition, Minami was the first skater in their flight, and he'd have to forfeit if he couldn't be on the ice in ten minutes. It was Minami's first ever Senior GPF event, invited as the wildcard by the JSF, and Yuuri took one look at Minami's unsubtly repressed heartbreak and made a snap decision.

"I'll skate first!" he declared, bowing nearly in half. "Minami-kun and I will switch, please allow him to skate in my place!"

"Yuuri-kuuuuuuun!" Minami sobbed, and Yuuri patted his shoulder while the steward ran off to tell the referee.

"Do your best, today Minami-kun!" he said, his accent rougher in the dialect they shared. "You’re here to represent Kyushu."

"Yes! Yes, I'll work my hardest, I won't let you down Yuuri-senpai!"

Yuuri gave him a firm hug and a curt nod, and he missed the near faint Minami suffered from the attention, because he was determinedly marching back towards the rink, so quickly that Victor was having trouble keeping up with him.

"Yuuri, are you sure –"

"Mm. I'm warmed up. I can do it." Yuuri unzipped his jacket and pulled off his skate guards, leaving both on the barrier of the rink. He did a brief little series of turns into a waltz jump, testing out his laces, and then skated back to Victor for a quick drink of water.

"Leave the jumps the same as Skate Canada," Victor instructed, speaking low and quickly. "The old transition into the axel. We have lots of time to make it up in the free, and Yurio's been off on his lutz in practice. If I know Yakov he'll do a salchow instead which means…"

Yuuri nodded, half listening. He set his water bottle down and reached for Victor's right hand, pressing a kiss to the ring on Victor's third finger, and cutting off whatever else Victor was going to say. They were introducing Yuuri now in Japanese, and he turned away in a rush to greet the crowd.

His reception was almost deafening, but Yuuri hardly heard it. He set himself into his starting position and thought only about how he needed to skate, so Minami had enough time to tape his ankle. He exhaled into the gentle tinkle of the piano, moving quiet and intent into his opening sequence in an exquisitely refined version of the triplets steps the previous night.

As the cello swelled, it was obvious everyone was going to see something very special.

Lights reflected off the ice and turned the kintsugi of Yuuri's costume into a dazzling fire, transforming something once broken into a shooting star. He moved with beautiful purpose, turning his wrists just so, elongating his neck and his gracefully slender limbs, each movement so perfectly subtle as to make the whole breathtaking. Yuuri got caught up in it, he felt deep, unfathomable, as though his skates were magnets and some giant hand beneath the ice held the metal stylus, carving a trustworthy pattern, moving his feet without needing him to guide them. For the first half of his program, there was a clarity and a blessed, safe silence to his thoughts.

_Wait. What did Victor say about the jumps again?_

The music began building, and Yuuri thought, mildly frantic, _I'll just have to surprise him?_

Balanced on his backward inside edge, a toe pick into the ice, and Yuuri nailed a quad flip. He liked to save them for later in his program, but Victor and Yuuri had been working on the entry for his triple axel, and while Yuuri could improvise a jump when he needed to make up points in his free, he wasn't the type of genius who could invent seamless choreography from thin air. Instead the music built again, and so did Yuuri's confidence. _I need more points against Yurio's lutz so…_

He wasn't even really thinking about it, as he took off on his back outside edge, and landed on the same one after four rotations – he was concentrating on keeping his free leg and shoulder forward – but when he landed the triple the noise in the arena was almost enough to bring the roof down. All Yuuri felt was the same relief and euphoria he always experienced landing jumps in competition, and he carried it into his combination spin, the joy radiating out of him and over the ice as he wound through his step sequence, altered slightly to make his axel entry more difficult. _Why don't I do a rippon?_ Yuuri didn't have an answer for why not, so he did one, landing perfectly, erasing that niggling double from Skate Canada. Axels were his best jump, after all. He spun carefully into his final pose, his arms encircling instead of clinging, hope and strength and belief, that elusive and so sought after emotion, clear on his face.

The crowd gave him a standing ovation, which was kind. Yuuri was still hovering in his strange mood, bowing respectfully and skating carefully to the kiss and cry, because there were so many things lying on the surface of the ice he didn't have a clear path. He skated around a giant onigiri plushie and his eyes connected, suddenly, with two deep, sea-blue ones.

_Oh. My Vitya._

His eyes were wet, his hands pressed over his mouth, and Yuuri frowned, skating faster. _No no no no what did you do he's upset_

"Victor, I –"

In front of ten thousand fans, his family, his federation, the ISU judging panel, their peers and competitors and whoever was watching on live TV, Victor swooped him up and bent Yuuri almost to the floor with a kiss that nearly made Yuuri's pounding heart stop. He clutched frantically at Victor's trench coat despite the stability of Victor's arms around him and Victor's knee in the small of his back.

"What am I going to do with you?" Victor whined breathlessly against Yuuri's jaw while the audience screamed around them. "I don't know if I am built to withstand all these surprises, lyubov!"

Yuuri couldn't help his soft smile. "Did I do okay?"

"Did you do _okay_?! Yuuri! You just ratified the quad loop in combination!"

"I…?" Yuuri blinked. "I what?!"

Victor's laugh was deep and throaty, humming against him in a way that made Yuuri want to simultaneously take both their clothes off and also put on something far less flimsy than stretch velour and performance netting in front of all these people. He shivered in Victor's arms and tried to burrow his way into Victor's coat, his face and ears on fire.

"Come my Yuuri, my sweetheart," Victor cooed, one hand shifting to splay hot over Yuuri's back so he could grab Yuuri's skate guards with the other. "Let me sit you in the kiss and cry so everyone can watch you take my record."

Snapping on his hard guards, Yuuri shook his head. "Maybe, but…"

Victor set the tip of his finger over Yuuri's lips, his face turned deadly serious. "If they don't give it to you, solnyshko, I will start a riot."

Yuuri turned to Victor in the kiss and cry after his score was announced, the glistening, proud tears in Victor's eyes an exact copy of his own. "I guess the building is safe," he whispered shakily, and Victor grabbed both his hands and pulled him in for another kiss.

 

Trying to follow Yuuri's record shattering performance proved difficult for the rest of the flight, none of whom had a jump schedule that could even hope to best him. They were effectively fighting for second in an attempt to get as many points as possible heading into the free. Emil put up a valiant fight with a loop of his own and Minami – electrified from the pep talk and the gauntlet thrown by his idol, humming on adrenaline and ecstasy – managed to land his quad toe and effuse his program with so much energy that his PCS was off the charts. His bruised ankle was almost an afterthought, a war wound sustained for the ultimate prize of leaving the kiss and cry and being allowed to vault, shrieking and delirious, into his senpai's arms for a patient congratulatory hug. Yuri watched Victor pat Minami on the head and resisted the urge to spit on something.

Out on the ice waiting to be announced while the judges calculated Emil's score, Yuri pointedly ignored Victor and Yuuri standing at the curtain, listening to Yakov's new plan for his jumps. The lutz, a salchow combination, a triple axel. Yuri grit his teeth and skated to centre ice. His stomach twinged awkwardly when he heard _Davai!_ from somewhere behind him, and Yuri pushed the feeling down into his feet, angry. He set his shoulders and raised his chin, lifting his arms into position.

Yuri's short music was Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake, because it was an Olympic year, and he had little choice in the matter. He was dressed head to toe in glittering black feathers, his hair pulled back into a severe bun, and Lilia had allowed him to line his eyes once again with thick, smudging lines of kohl. He had only agreed to her musical choice on the stipulation that he skate as the Black Swan – dark, mysterious, and sinister. The opening strains boomed into the rink, and as Yuri went up onto his toe picks, something electric shot up his left leg and made his breath come out in a hiss. He had no time though; he was a professional and every skater trained to skate through pain. Yuri could stay on his feet even if they were bleeding in his boots. His camel spin travelled, slightly off from his music, but that was a minor mistake that he could erase in the free. It was his first jump, the quad lutz, that really fucked him over.

His percentage with the lutz was fair, he could land them six times out of ten, and usually, always in competition. But something about the angle of his foot, something about his toe pick striking the ice – Yuri dug in and his foot gave out, he barely got three rotations, let alone four, and the shock made his running edge stutter, the landing a fight. His choreography called for him to push off from the lutz into a spin, and he couldn't do it, his left foot had completely lost its power. But on the ice, you never gave up. Give it an inch, and it was entirely too easy for it to defeat you. He dug in with his right foot to make up the ground, switched his spinning foot. He pulled himself across the ice for his combination in a simplified version of his footwork, abandoning his choreography in favour of gaining enough speed. The jump itself was terrible, the entry too simple and the speed too different, and he fell out of his salchow hard, something he hadn't done since he was twelve years old. His program was completely shot now that he'd missed the mandatory combination jump element – he'd be lucky to stay in the top flight – all that was left for him was to land a clean axel and hope he could get some PCS out of his step sequence.

Of course it betrayed him; of course it would be the back counter that Yuuri had suggested, one night at the end of practice, when Yuri couldn't do anything right and he'd already exhausted the options of screaming at Lilia and swearing at Yakov. At the time he'd been too embarrassed to even say thank you; just a curt nod and a change to his choreography that Yakov merely raised an eyebrow over and blissfully said nothing about. Yuri cut in and then his foot refused to cut back out. He crumpled, his feet coming out from under him and only fall training preventing him from smacking his head. It felt like someone had put a knife through his foot to pin it to the ice. Yuri lay huffing, staring up at the roof of the arena, and hot, angry tears threatened the corners of his eyes as his music blared overhead. He wanted to sink into the ice and disappear.

"Ganba, Yurio! You can do it!"

It had never occurred to Yuri, there in the bathroom of the Sochi Grand Prix. Yuri had never fallen more than once during a program in competition. He'd never had to get up and keep going in front of ten thousand people who were watching you fall apart. Katsudon had imploded in Sochi and in spite of it, for pride, or sheer ridiculousness, he'd skated perfect step sequences and beautiful spins, that angry, tight-lipped look on his face. And then he'd done the same at his own Nationals, and still come back and tried again the next season, his skates inconsistent but always improving. Yuri had called him an embarrassment, a loser, but Yuuri, perhaps more than any other skater, had a core of pure steel, more courage in his littlest finger than Yuri had in his whole body. He finally understood. _Resilience_. In a sport that had constantly attempted to break him – through his nerves, or his jump ability, or even its own terrible politics – Yuuri could not be defeated by failure.

"Ganba! Come on! GANBA!"

Yuri rolled slowly onto his stomach and got up onto his hands and knees. Encouraging applause and cheers reigned over his music – Yuri had been too caught up to realize that for the fifteen seconds he'd lain prone on the ice, things had fallen deathly quiet. There was absolutely no way he could finish the elements of his program, but he was close to where his final spin sequence was supposed to happen, and he had one good foot. He glided into a scratch spin through a combination of one quick, ankle-screaming push off and the momentum of his arms, his injured foot curled protectively around his calf. It took nearly everything he had to switch positions, to get himself into his final pose and still maintain some semblance of elegance. As soon as the music ended Yuri skated off of it, straight to Yakov who wrapped an arm against his waist and lifted him off the ice.

"My foot." Yuri started to cry, but Yakov was carrying him towards the kiss and cry.

"We'll take care of it, Yura," he said quietly. "For now, you've finished your short. Let's be happy with that."

 

It was late when a knock sounded on Yuri's hotel room door, or at least late for international athletes with a free skate the next day. Yuri hobbled from his bed to open the door, thinking it was Yakov bringing him painkillers or more ice, and nearly recoiled when Victor loomed over him in the doorway, shadowed by the hallway lights.

"Yura," he smiled. "May I come in?"

"What do you want?" Yuri snapped. He was tired, his foot hurt, and he'd just spent the last four hours in a weird Japanese hospital. "Shouldn't you be tucking the pig in?"

Victor's smile grew sharper, and indication Yuri was on thin ice. "I dislike when you call Yuuri that, but you've had a long day, yes? Let's agree you didn't mean to say it. Can we talk?"

Yuri could have slammed the door in Victor's face, but he knew he'd just keep knocking and being insufferable, and the sooner Victor did whatever he seemed to think he needed to do, he'd leave Yuri alone. He opened the door wider and shuffled back into his room to his bed, throwing an irritated "Whatever" over his shoulder. Victor followed behind him and closed the door; he sat in his crisply ironed three-piece suit on the crisply made second bed across from Yuri and set a small Hello Kitty plushie on the night stand between them. The stuffed white cat was wearing a tiger onesie; it was limited edition, only available in Japan.

"It's from Yuuri," Victor gestured at it vaguely, before crossing his legs and hinging his fingers around his knee. He looked contemplatively at Yuri for a moment while Yuri tried desperately to control the heat in his face. The silence stretched awkwardly until Victor spoke again.

"Is it broken?"

"What's it to you, asshole?"

Victor shrugged his shoulders in nonchalance. "It's nothing to me, actually. You are intending to skate tomorrow."

"Yeah, so?"

"A sprain then," Victor nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. "They told you four to six weeks?"

"What the hell even is this, Victor? If you think I'm not going to go out there and annihilate Katsudon tomorrow–"

"Did you know I broke my foot in 2009?" Victor said cheerfully. "Right after Nationals, two months before the Olympics."

Yuri felt like screaming. Literally the entire planet knew Victor had broken his foot; everyone in Russia knew exactly where they had been when Plushenko rescued their hopes of Olympic gold for the motherland after Victor failed. There was an unbroken chain of Russian victories all the way back to Lillehammer and Yuri was going to add his name to that list in PyeongChang.

"What most people don't know," Victor continued, still smiling brightly, "was that I sprained my ankle before that. It was a bad one. I was supposed to stay off it, but doing so meant I wouldn't have enough preparation time for Nationals."

It tasted sour in Yuri's mouth, his anger. He was so, so tired of everyone thinking he was just like Victor, tired of everyone thinking they'd turn out the same.

"If you came here to talk me out of competing, you can just leave."

"Mmm, I thought you might feel that way." Victor laughed, like Yuri had just told him an entertaining joke. "Let me guess, Yakov told you that it could be taped tomorrow, yes? That they'd give you some freezing for the pain, that you'll barely feel it." He watched Yuri again for a moment, daring Yuri to contradict him, and when no response came, his smile stretched even wider. It was almost frightening, that vacuous grin and the warning behind it – it sent ice shooting down Yuri's spine.

"That's what they did for my ankle; I learned to inject myself so I could practice. I didn't notice when I broke my foot for four days, because of the freezing. And then, well, we just froze it more, I got a bigger skate so it could be reinforced and to handle the swelling. I had a special mouth guard because when the freezing wore off the pain made me grit my teeth too hard."

"What's your point?"

"My point, Yura, is that I did all that, and I didn't even finish top ten in Vancouver. Instead of a medal I have a medical visa that I have to show airport security before I go through the metal detector. My point is that you need to decide what's really important to you this year."

"Yakov knows what he's doing," Yuri tried, but it didn't shake the smile from Victor's face.

"I trusted Yakov too. About everything back then, my program composition, my jumps, of course about my health. That trust was not the same after Vancouver, but, he was all I had. The same is not true for you."

"I guess you think I have you, right?" Yuri snapped. "You're here to fucking fix everything? Just like how you've fixed the World Championships?"

Victor's eyes narrowed into daggers, and it was a low blow, but it was much easier to deal with Victor once you were under his skin, once he shed his uppity smile. But disappointingly, he didn't rise to the bait. Victor dragged a hand through his hair and laughed, short and abrupt.

"Okay," he smiled. "If you would prefer to not hear what I have to say, that's fine. All I'll ask is that you not take your mood swings out on Yuuri. It's childish. Answer one of the five texts he sent you, and maybe he won't have to resort to sending his coach over to your hotel room to check on you because he's too worried to sleep."

"Fuck you," Yuri hissed quietly, shame eating it's way through his belly, worming its way through his ribs. "Get the fuck out, Victor."

"Goodnight, Yura." Victor climbed to his feet and walked towards the door, but before he stepped through it he said quietly, adding insult to injury, "Good luck tomorrow."

Yuri seethed on his bed until the pain in his ankle made him turn carefully over onto his side, where he could see the Hello Kitty plushie sitting on the nightstand. He pushed her over so he didn't have to look at her face and took up his phone, propping himself against the headboard while he scrolled through twitter. The Yuri's Angels had been quite active, they'd started a _#GetWellYurotchka_ tag, but despite their best efforts the number one trending topic on Twitter was instead _#TwoRecordsOneChampion_ , followed by _#KissuKatsuki_.

 

* * *

 

If Yuuri thought the pressure of competing before the short program was bad, it was nothing to the free skate. Phichit had been delighted to inform him that Yuuri had become a meme overnight; people were sending gifs of Victor's passionate kiss to each other as good luck tidings on social media. They were sending gifs of the kiss to _Yuuri_ to wish him luck, and Yuuri's phone was currently buried somewhere in one of Victor's pockets, likely vibrating incessantly. That Victor was clearly as agitated about it as Yuuri was would have almost been comical if Yuuri didn't feel like he was going to throw up.

"Vitya…" he wheezed into his folded arms, resting on his knees. Victor was hovering over him, kneeling on the floor in a suit that cost more than Yuuri's competitive costume, and Yuuri could feel the phantom presence of his hands, hanging in the air but not touching him. Victor made a soft noise and Yuuri sighed. "Could you… sorry. I need you to - to go away? To the other side of the room.

"Okay. Right, yes." Victor sounded like that was the last thing he'd like to do, but the oppressive shadow over Yuuri disappeared. It was a little prick of hurt, it cut through the nausea enough for Yuuri to feel remorse instead of just swirling panic.

He reached out blindly and managed to catch hold of Victor's trouser leg. "Can you… my dopp kit? I want to go to the washroom."

"Of course. Just a minute."

Armed with his emergency touch-up supplies, a Pocari Sweat, and directions from a helpful steward, Yuuri left Victor sitting beside two vending machines and headed for the closest men's room. It might make him feel better if he could be sick, sometimes just giving his body permission to do so was enough to relax his stomach enough to master it. He was upset at the thought of wasting the balanced and lightly flavoured breakfast his mother had prepared for him that morning, which just made the churning of his gut worse.

Yuuri pushed open the door, intending to survey the bathroom for the best stall in which to hunker down and hide his shame in, but the room wasn't empty. Leaning against the sink, his skin ashy and his shoulders shaking, was Yurio. He looked up when Yuuri came in; their eyes connected in the mirror. Yuuri shut the door behind him, locked it, and pulled the heavy garbage can in front of it for good measure.

"What are you–" Yurio started, but cut off when Yuuri took careful hold of his elbow.

"Sit down," he said, calm and quiet and authoritative. Yuuri's stomach was no longer twisting itself into knots, and he'd forgotten the reason he'd come into the bathroom in the first place. He eased Yurio onto the cool concrete and sat in front of him, Yurio's swollen, shoeless ankle resting across Yuuri's lap on his thigh, and uncapped his Pocari. "Drink this."

Yuuri had never had a serious injury in his career. He'd broken three fingers, pulled muscles, endured blisters and bruises - the typical ailments of a professional athlete. When he was younger he'd had a bad habit of rolling his ankles until he learned how to get his skates fitted properly, and he'd had a few mild concussions. The summer he learned his first quad he sprained his wrist, his early haphazard attempts at the salchow dislocated his shoulder, and there was a scar on his palm, in the fleshy part beneath his thumb, from when he'd cut himself badly doing a Biellman spin. That was the sum total, and he knew how lucky he was, how easy it was to snap a ligament or break a bone, to have a season or career ending fall. Soaring through the air like a god had its price – Yuuri's bruised and raw feet were a testament to that – but not one he'd ever had to pay with more than he could give.

He watched Yurio take gulps of the sports drink until it was half full, and then Yuuri put a hand on his shoulder. "Slow down," he cautioned. "Were you sick?"

Yurio shook his head, taking smaller sips. His hair was hanging loose and dishevelled around his face, and he looked like a wounded, caged animal, liable to bite or bolt at any minute.

"Are you dizzy?"

"No," Yurio grunted. "It's just hard not to focus on."

Yuuri hummed in agreement, unzipping his bag and removing his makeup wipes. He passed one to Yurio and waited while he rubbed away the sweat from his upper lip and brow. Yurio's eye make-up was hopelessly irreparable; Yuuri took the wipe from him and attempted to push the worst of it back into place, but abandoned that in favour of removing it all. The only way to rectify it was going to be to start over.

"I don't have the same type of eyeliner," Yuuri said as he pulled a fresh wipe across Yurio's eyelids and then dug out the Shu Uemura pen he'd been loyally buying since using up the first one Mari-nee-chan gave him when he was fourteen. He put a little dot on the outer ridge of Yurio's eye socket, another low on the center of his eyelid, and then leaned in, careful not to jostle Yurio's foot, to start tracing in an elegant, thick cat-eye.

"I used to be really bad at this," he admitted with a rueful smile. "I used to have to do it over and over again until Phichit showed me how to use eyeliner properly."

Yurio flushed a little, but said nothing.

"Minako-sensei was the one who taught me about make-up, well, more about taking care of my skin. I don't use it too often, just for exhibitions and I guess this year…"

That was a lie surrounded in a truth; on the ice a bare face was safer, but Yuuri had worn make-up sometimes when he went out in Detroit. He knew the express power of a smoky eye in a dark club, a smudged red kiss print on the inside of someone's wrist. Yuuri had done James' make-up for his wedding, sitting knee to knee on the floor of his hotel room and talking through their nerves, just like this.

"You're okay at it," Yurio said shortly, which was both high praise and woefully understated from someone who's lone signature look was adjacent to a raccoon. "Georgi taught me."

Yuuri frowned and leaned back to inspect his handiwork. He held up his highlighter compact for Yurio, so he could see his cat-eye in the mirror. "Do you like it? I can make it thicker."

Yurio shook his head and closed his eyes again, turning his face a little so his bare eyelid faced Yuuri easier. Yuuri suppressed a little laugh and drew on the corresponding dots. "I have an unopened mascara in here somewhere," he mused, searching through his dopp kit.

 

They left the bathroom together, wearing the same lilac glitter on their eyelids, and with Yurio's hair pulled into a sloppy french braid, secured at the end with a familiar electric blue hair tie. Victor did not ask; Yuuri turned over his make-up bag without a word and became incredibly focused in doing his preparatory stretches. Whatever had been spoken between them in the bathroom remained a mystery, but it resulted in Yuuri winning his second gold medal of the season, and Yurio withdrawing from the competition.

 

* * *

 

They went to Tokyo after the NHK, for meetings and to collect Makkachin, finally cleared of her quarantine. She was staying with the Katsukis for the rest of the season, and Victor had booked the three of them into a dog-friendly hotel so they could spend time together before Mari came to collect her. Yuuri had a full schedule of interviews, a photo shoot for Mizuno, and a publicity appearance at local skate school. He was booked solid, which left Victor largely wandering around with Makkachin in tow, sightseeing and amusing himself until Yuuri returned to the hotel in the evening. His second day in Tokyo he tied Yuuri's necktie and kissed both his cheeks before seeing Yuuri off, dressed in one of his better suits, gave Makka an antler to occupy her while he went out, and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

A car was waiting for him, and the driver took Victor into Shibuya, to the Kishi Memorial Sports Center. He was shown into a small meeting room and provided with a glass of water. Victor silenced his phone against the ceaseless congratulatory tweets he was still receiving in which he kissed his stunned fiancé in an unending, slow motion loop, steepling his fingers in thought while he waited. Victor had been called into meetings with his own federation on more than one occasion, but he somehow didn't think the JSF President operated under the same tactics.

Seiko Hashimoto did not keep him waiting long, and she was attended by an interpreter who addressed Victor in Russian. She welcomed him and bade them both to sit, and after Victor expressed his gratitude at her taking time from what was probably an incredibly busy schedule to meet with him, and a brief discussion of the weather, the interpreter at last revealed exactly why Victor was there.

"Ah, regarding the World Championships, we wish to explain that after discussing the judging, once again with the ISU, the rankings of the competition will remain as they were awarded in March."

Victor felt his nose get hot, but he smiled very politely. "Has the inquiry been concluded? I was not asked to provide any feedback to the ISU, and given that I am Katsuki-san's coach, I would have thought I would have been contacted."

"We have decided, in cooperation with the ISU, the Russian Federation, Skate Canada, and the USFS, that the judging was as fair as it could be. I volunteered to explain this to you myself, personally, as you were currently here for the Grand Prix competition. I will be speaking to Katsuki-san by phone as well in a few days, before the official notice goes out."

Victor's hands had developed a slight tremor, and he folded them on the table.

"I'm sorry but, this is… unacceptable." It was an effort to keep his voice level, but Victor managed it. "I know you aren't a figure skater yourself, Hashimoto-sama, but please understand me when I say that Katsuki Yuuri was singularly robbed at the World Championships-"

The JSF President held up her hand and Victor cut off abruptly, waiting for the translator to finish. She asked the interpreter to leave, a sentence Victor understood, and he was momentarily flooded with a brief, irrational panic. Yuuri had promised Victor she'd never made a pass at him, never been anything but professional, but it was unspoken knowledge amongst male skaters, and even if it wasn't, Victor had been there in Sochi in 2014.

"I'd like to speak frankly for a moment Nikiforov-san," she said in English, "and it's best that what I explain to you stays between us."

Victor nodded dumbly, eyes still fixed on the door closing behind the translator. The JSF President sighed for a moment, and then slid a manila folder across the table to him. "I'm sure you have many questions, and given your involvement in generating the inquiry, that is fair." She opened the folder and tapped the top page. "This is Katsuki-san's statement to the ISU; he wrote it in English so I am sharing it with you. I wish to tell you that Katsuki-san made this statement against the will of the Federation, and that after repeated hours of talking in circles, we were unable to persuade him otherwise."

Victor had every reason to doubt that, until he read Yuuri's statement, so clearly in his own American-Japanese hybrid vernacular, and misspelling the word “accommodation” like he always did.

"Yuuri is very stubborn," Victor said carefully, still scanning the statement.

"Yes. I am aware. I was completely unable to sway him; there may be a future for him in politics." Hashimoto made a face, she placed the page containing Yuuri's statement to the side to reveal his scorecard underneath. Victor had seen it before, it was public knowledge, and the glaringly erroneous marks hurt to look at.

"As you can see, Katsuki-san received very high marks from a few of the judges, but the ones who marked him lower are mostly of the same nationality. I'm sure you saw this yourself, and that's why you approached Skate Canada. We were not unaware of this when we tried to overturn the result on Katsuki-san's behalf, and it is my belief that this fact is also what ultimately made Katsuki-san unwilling to contest the results."

Victor shook his head and pressed his lips together, and the JSF President's voice became a bit softer.

"I want to reassure you that the ISU is aware of the situation, and that judges are now being closely monitored; we agreed to close the inquiry because we have been assured that this kind of oversight won't happen again."

"That's not enough," Victor said with a sharp smile. "You know that's not enough. It's your responsibility to fight for him."

"I'd love to," Hashimoto's smile was just as sharp. "But with Katsuki-san unwilling to cooperate, there is nothing I can do."

"Surely you aren't going to be held back by Yuuri; he is the last person you should trust on the subject of how talented he is!"

Hashimoto looked at him for a moment in silence. She placed her hands on the table, ten finger tips pressing into the smooth surface of the wood.

"Do you know, Nikiforov-san, why we call Katsuki Yuuri our ace?" She paused for a moment, and when Victor didn't answer her rhetorical question, she smiled. "It's not a new nickname, he's been called that since he was a Novice. Katsuki-san was possibly the most talented skater in our ranks, ever, from a very young age. He consistently won international competitions, he had a triple axel before any of his peers, and you are of course aware of the natural artistry he possesses. A talent like that, it has to be carefully nurtured, especially given his mental weaknesses."

"He is not _weak_ ," Victor whispered, but Hashimoto continued on as though she hadn't heard him.

"We call Katsuki-san Japan's ace, not just because he is our best, but also because he has always been the hidden card in our sleeve. We had many capable skaters above him, so we could take the time to ensure he had what he needed to succeed. We agreed to pay for Katsuki-san to train in the US because we believed that he would benefit from time outside of the national spotlight. We had him on the perfect track to peak in time for PyeongChang, but then, we suddenly found ourselves without any other certified skaters in late 2014. The mentorship we had hoped to provide him was suddenly gone, and it was up to Katsuki-san alone to preserve our world rankings. And he did, hesitantly, unconfidently, but he has held the pride of Japan, and for that, we do whatever it is Katsuki-san asks of us to support him. Including allowing him to be coached by his direct competitor.

"So that's it then?" Victor said quietly.

"Other federations were beginning to question other results," she sighed. "It is not the type of scrutiny the sport can afford in an Olympic year. We agreed, for the common good, that no changes would be made to the World rankings, and that the problem will be dealt with from within."

"The public are not going to agree."

"That is for the ISU to handle, and I hope we can count on your professionalism, Nikiforov-san. Everything I have shared with you has been in confidence. I hope you understand that this matter is settled, and that it can go no further."

Victor shook his head. "It's _wrong_. If we want our sport to be taken seriously then we have to be better than this."

"If you are unwilling to concede because of pride, I understand, but if not for the sport, then please do this for Katsuki-san. I know you are close, and I know you want him to succeed. Help him to achieve his goals, and try to respect Katsuki-san's own decision." She tapped the papers in her folder, as though to remind Victor of what Yuuri's decision had been. "You need to ask yourself why he didn't want to pursue this when he found out that the judges who'd underscored him were Russian."

Victor stared hard at the marks, and his look must have been unfathomable, because Hashimoto hesitated a little before she continued.

"You need to ask yourself," she said, "what exactly it is that Yuuri-kun is protecting you from."

 

* * *

 

The apartment was much quieter without Makkachin; it reminded Yuuri of when he'd first moved to Detroit, lonely and homesick and without the comfort of a dog's toenails clicking behind him. It felt strange to not have her running beside him on the way to the rink too, without her there to pace him he ran faster than he probably should have, but Victor didn't comment on Yuuri's flushed cheeks and shortness of breath, other than to ask if it had gotten colder outside that morning. Yuuri shrugged his way through his off-ice warm-up stretches and did sprints up the spectator stairs to keep warm while he waited for Victor to finish his time with Yakov. They traded spots, Yuuri began his on-ice conditioning while Victor watched over him from the boards, doing his cool-down. Yakov had moved on to work with Mila in the opposite quarter of the rink, the expansive space granted to her because she was leaving the next day for the Internationaux, where she'd be in stiff competition against Sara Crispino and Katelyn Osmond.

Yuuri had built his way up to step sequences when Yakov's gravelly voice broke over the rink in an aggressive tirade. He was speaking too quickly for Yuuri to catch most of it – something about her choreography leading into a spin – but he watched Mila's posture stiffen, and the back of her neck grow red, until finally Yakov threw his hands up in the air and stalked off towards his office. Mila raised her hand to her eyes, her shoulders shaking.

"Okay!" Victor beamed loudly. He walked over to the other half of the rink, where approximately a dozen novice-aged skaters were huddled in clumps of fear. "Gather here, gather here," he sang, while their coach sent him a grateful look, and went off to see after Yakov. Yuuri took off his glasses and placed them on top of the boards, and then started skating in tighter and tighter loops until he was essentially doing spins around Mila.

"Yutenka," she sniffed, her lips curling at the corners, "what are you doing?"

Yuuri held his hand out, and started to hum the chorus of their exhibition skate. Mila rubbed her knuckle into the damp part of her cheek and took his hand.

He led her into a perfect three, then looped into an eight. Their skates drew a chrysanthemum on the ice, then a more complicated cherry blossom, and Yuuri deemed that was enough and he didn't need to show her his most complex and calming figure, a violin. Instead he pulled Mila after him, doing bits of choreography from her free skate until he hit on the one that made her grimace, and he did it again, pulling her behind him in the same steps, and then again, until their rhythm was tight enough. Yuuri brought Mila a half step forwards, into a dance hold, his hand on her waist and their running edges parallel. He did the choreography again, and Mila's foot cut the wrong way towards the end, into Yuuri, and nearly sent them tumbling over.

"Ha, there it is," he huffed, releasing Mila so she could right herself.

"Did I step on you? Oh, Yuuri!"

"Your foot wants to go that way," he said, waving off her concern. Mila had much smaller feet that Victor; he'd had worse. "So go that way. Show me the whole piece with the spin." He skated off to get his glasses, and by the time Victor joined them, they had narrowed it down to two possible options.

"Which do you like?" Yuuri asked, leaning against the boards beside him.

"Hmm, the question you need to ask is which one is going to make Yakov lose less hair, lyubov."

"I don't care what Yakov thinks," Yuuri said flatly. "Which one is better Vitya?"

Victor arched one eyebrow in surprise, and then tapped his lip with his forefinger. "The first option."

Yuuri nodded and pushed off from the boards. He wanted to make sure Mila was comfortable with the choice, and after he'd sent her back to her quarter of the ice, blushing from the grateful kiss she placed on his cheek, he stood a few feet out from the boards, ready to begin his own practice. He inclined his head slightly, his ears growing hot.

"Sorry for the interruption," he mumbled. "Where should I begin?"

"Come here," Victor said shortly, and tugged by an invisible string, Yuuri obeyed. He stopped in front of Victor and decided he should explain himself, quietly, in Japanese.

"Ano-"

Victor leaned forward and placed a kiss on Yuuri's forehead. "Mila is your friend, but don't pick fights with Yakov. Show me complete run throughs of your free skate please, jumps marked for now."

Yuuri flushed in indignant embarrassment, but he murmured a soft yes and went off to do as Victor asked. He was on run-through number five when Yakov came back, and Victor had said to mark the jumps, but something itched beneath his skin, twitched in his mind. Yuuri leaned onto his left outside edge, and dug his right toe-pick into the ice. He'd been doing it as a triple in competition, waiting until it was ready, and in practice he'd been coming close.

_Shack!_

Yuuri pumped his fist in the air with a triumphant whoop and Mila squealed his name in delight. He forgot about his run through and set up for another quad lutz, this time off a three-turn, text book and crisp, no faulty edge or high free leg to mar it, the landing perfect. His cheeks ached from grinning, and he went to set one up again. 

"YUURI!"

He stopped so abruptly he skidded, and only his intimate knowledge of his own balance saved him from smacking face-first into the ice. Victor had his hands on his hips and his face was wearing a displeased frown. "Get off the ice, Yuuri."

"Wh – what?" He was a little out of breath, but surely, surely Victor could see that he needed to keep going, that a third attempt was what would seal it.

"That’s enough for today, come."

Yuuri shook his head as he skated to the boards, but Victor put his hand, warm, on the back of Yuuri's neck, and gave him a tight smile.

"Zolotse moya, the more you show Yakov you can do, the harder he is going to work me tomorrow. It's a little self-preservation, yes? I want to see that beautiful lutz again tonight at the private rink."

"I landed it," Yuuri whispered in realization. He curled his gloved fingers into the open edge of Victor's coat pockets. Yuuri gave himself permission to feel elated, and felt his cheeks and ears growing warm at the implications of his success. They had a deal over exactly what their rewards were going to be when they achieved their new quads this year. He gave Victor a coy smile, shaking his pockets playfully. "Twice."

Victor kissed him on the cheek, chaste and careful. "Yes you did."

 

For whatever reason, Victor did not fulfill his promise to Yuuri of his intended reward, though he landed several more successful lutzes at private practice. Yuuri hadn't landed a single bad one; Victor knew that feeling – once a jump clicked, it clicked, and it became almost impossible to do it the wrong way. It was quite the achievement, the mastery of every quad currently teachable, and Victor ought to have felt pride in his student's ability, but all he felt was a hollowness where that pride should be. He'd wanted to keep the secret of Yuuri's lutz from Yakov as long as possible – Victor was going to have to get up tomorrow and start really applying himself to the quad loop. It wasn't fair to Yuuri, but he couldn’t make himself overcome the listless dread that had risen in him as he'd watched the shock on Yakov's face slowly morph into something coldly calculating. It was the same look Yakov had worn when Christophe debuted his lutz, when Victor's flip suddenly became obsolete, and it had led to a training regimen that nearly destroyed Victor's knees. At least Yura was still on medical leave in Moscow, only Georgi and Victor were going to have to bear the immediate brunt of whatever Yakov planned in the wake of Yuuri's newest jump.

He watched Yuuri sleeping next to him, the careful rise and fall of his chest and the gentle whistle of his breath, the way he curled his ringed hand up beside his face, so it would be the first thing he saw when he woke up. His dusky eyelashes lay against his soft cheeks; it was easy, in sleep, to see how big Yuuri's eyes actually were, the doll-like proportions of his face. It made Victor wonder who Yuuri would take after more as he aged – Toshiya, whose face was stately and elegant, or Hiroko, who had largely maintained her youthful loveliness. Victor lifted his right hand and held it up in front of his face, turning it over to look at his ring, but there was no light in their room to make it shimmer.

He was going to get to watch the slow passage of time on Yuuri's face, each change so minute it would be familiar. In twenty years he was going to look at Yuuri sleeping and they'd be different, but still Victor and Yuuri, still them. In twenty years' time whatever they did now would be a long distant memory.

Victor rolled onto his side and curled his fingers over Yuuri's, gently maneuvering his limp hand so it sat warm over Victor's heart. Yuuri sniffled a little, he swallowed and rubbed his face on his pillow, and then just when Victor thought he had gone back to sleep, his eyes opened slowly, unfocused.

"Vitya?" A groggy whisper, Yuuri's beautiful eyes squinting in the dark.

"Mm. Sleep, solnyshko."

Yuuri yawned and shifted closer, the distance Victor knew by heart as the one at which Yuuri could see clearly without his glasses. His fingers slid up the side of Victor's neck to rest in his hair, Yuuri’s legs wormed their way through Victor's, and he looked at Victor for several moments before his chin tilted up and he pressed their lips together.

"What time is it?" He asked, fingers trailing very gently through Victor's hair.

"It's 2am. You have more time to rest, lyubov."

"I like that name," Yuuri breathed against his cheek. He kissed Victor again, slow and sweet, heedless of either of their bad breath. His fingers traced the side of Victor's chest until they reached the divot of Victor's hip, and Victor halted Yuuri's hand there by placing his own over it. He let Yuuri kiss him until it became a series of small, light kisses against his lips, and then stopped. Yuuri tucked his face into Victor's collarbone.

"Sorry," he whispered after a few minutes.

"It's okay."

"Victor..."

Yuuri drew back to look at him, his eyes searching Victor's face for whatever it was he hoped to see there, but after a moment he gave up. Yuuri kissed Victor's chin and pulled him a little closer.

"Get some rest too, Vitya."

 

Not having a dog in their apartment did make packing to leave easier; without Makkachin constantly interrupting, Yuuri could lay all their things out on the bed to check and double check, so he could be certain they weren't forgetting anything. He stood in the bedroom, lost deep in thought. There were still toiletries to buy; Victor had forgotten, on his way home from the rink yesterday, and Yuuri needed to tidy the apartment in advance of the cleaning lady coming while they were away. His left skate was dragging a bit on the back outside edge – he needed to get Kolya to look at them, there was probably a nick somewhere, too small for him to see, or at least he hoped it was only a nick. Yuuri had two weeks before the GPF, nowhere near enough time for him to break in new skates. And Yakov would soon be back from the Internationaux, and Yuuri needed to decide if he should talk to Victor.

The official announcement regarding the closing of the inquiry was going to be issued today. Yuuri had spoken to Hashimoto-sama and a member of the ISU over the phone last week, and he had prepared a statement already which would be released by the JSF shortly after the ISU made theirs. It rehashed his support for the current champions and his pride at finishing in the top five, and Yuuri had once again urged on his teammates for Nationals and thanked people for their support. It was nothing new and so he hadn't consulted Victor about it, instead he'd set an alert on his phone so he knew when to tweet the statement. It felt oddly cathartic; he could finally put last season to rest. In two weeks the competition season was going to ramp up, he had qualified for the GPF, and then there would be Nationals, the gateway to the 4CC, Worlds. PyeongChang.

He spent an hour folding clothes and tucking them economically into their suitcases, emptying the dishwasher, collecting pillows and blankets and returning them to their respective proper furniture. In an attempt to get used to them, Yuuri was wearing his new Kuboraum H10 glasses. The silver frames didn't have nose pads, and they slipped repeatedly – Yuuri was going to have to get them adjusted. He pushed them up his nose with a sigh and sat heavily on the sofa, halfway through straightening the magazines and books strewn half read all over the living room. His phone started buzzing in his pocket, and Yuuri sighed again. Victor had already texted him twice about what he was supposed to pick up at the store.

"Yes, hello?" he asked in Russian.

"Yuu-yu?"

Yuuri blinked in surprise. "Jamie?" he asked in a small voice. He heard James sigh in what sounded like relief, and Yuuri frowned. "What… ah… what time is it in Boston?"

James ignored the question though. "Are you okay? There is a live press conference about you on the news, Yuu-yu…"

"Oh…" Yuuri sagged into the sofa and covered his face with his hand. "I'm fine."

"Yuuri, talk to me. You sound very far away and I am this close to rounding up the posse and getting on a flight to St. Petersburg."

"Don't do that," Yuuri said quickly, but he smiled into his phone. "Paul will be angry with you if you disappear on him."

"Please, Paul is my right hand man. He's the one who called me at the office and pulled me out of a meeting so I could watch the news. He said to tell you he can get the entire alumnus offensive line together, and they'll stand around you in Lake Placid looking mean."

"Mm, as tempting as that is, I think it might not be the best idea. The press already thinks I have Bratva living on the first floor of my apartment building."

"Well, good! They should watch out, nobody shoves a microphone in my boy's face without consequences! You just focus on the Olympics, honey."

Yuuri blushed. "We'll see. We'll see how I do at Nationals…"

"No. Yuuri, shut up. You're going. You went to Sochi– "

"As the alternate, yes."

"Well just tell me whose knee I have to take out Yuu-yu! I'm American, that is how we get figure skaters into the Olympics in my country."

"Jamie," he groaned, laughing uncomfortably. "That is a terrible joke. You have threatened the entire international press corps and the prospective Japanese figure skating team in… the last two minutes. Is work going okay?"

"God, Candice is driving me _insane_ , Yuu-yu, you have no idea. Like, I know this brainstorming meeting is important but, lord! Can you hold up for fifteen minutes so I can make sure my baby isn't in a closet? Some of us are experiencing _real_ troubles here…"

"Mm," Yuuri hummed in sympathy, sitting up and tucking his phone into his shoulder so he could finish stacking up the books on the coffee table. "You… you don't have to worry about me, Jamie. It's… I'm okay."

"Yuuri…" James made a little frustrated noise. "I will worry about you if I want to, okay? I'm allowed to, because I love you."

It made Yuuri's eyes sting, and he nodded, even though James couldn't see it. "Tell me… ah… tell me a good thing, please."

He could hear James' smile over the phone. "I'm going to see you so soon! You and that Russian arm candy who I have decided is worthy of you."

"That's good of you," Yuuri smiled, soft and fond. "I'm the arm candy though, I think? It's his competition."

"Yes! Okay, Yuu-yu, you _need_ to bring that Dior, please, just let me put it on for fifteen minutes."

"I'll try, but Victor said I can't be photographed in the same coat at two events," Yuuri sighed.

"Oh my god… what an icon. Marry that man, Yuuri!"

_I want to_ , Yuuri wanted to say. _I'm going to, I will_. And then that one, terrifying, exhilarating, ringing truth, always in the back of his mind, drowning out every other voice. I _love him so, so much_.

"Yuuri?"

"Mm? Oh… sorry…"

"Is everything okay?"

He wanted to say, _I'm not sure_. He wanted to burrow into the couch and talk to James, really talk, for hours like they used to do when it was only a few states between them and not an entire ocean, when Yuuri could say just a few words and James could make him feel better with a hundred. Yuuri had so few people he felt comfortable opening up to, but he heard the sound of Victor's key in the door and knew he couldn't.

"Yeah," he lied. "Yes, I will… I have to go, Victor just got home, but I'll see you soon."

"Of course," James said, and his tone implied that he had caught Yuuri's lie and that he would be there when Yuuri was ready to tell him the truth. "Take care of yourself honey, okay? I love you."

"Yes, you too," Yuuri said, and hung up. He left his phone on the coffee table and went to the entryway to greet Victor.

"Okaeri," he called, and then frowned when he noticed Victor was taking off his shoes, and held zero bags from the pharmacy. "Did you got to the store for the toiletries?"

Victor sighed so heavily he sounded a little bit like Yurio. "No," he admitted, shoving his foot back into his shoe. "I'll go back out, Yuuri."

"It's fine," Yuuri said quickly, grabbing his wrist. Victor's eyes looked red and his mouth was in a line. "What's wrong?"

Victor leaned back against the door, shutting his eyes. "Nothing. The Federation is not sending Yakov to Lake Placid. Something about his visa." He smiled feebly at Yuuri and reached out to stroke his cheek. "So it will just be us there, isn't that nice? We can extend our holiday into the competition."

It was typical of Victor to deflect, but Yuuri still frowned. "Who's going to coach you?"

"I've gone to competitions by myself before," Victor shrugged. "It will be fine. Do you want to come with me to the pharmacy? I'll drive us to that big one."

Yuuri pulled Victor upright and into him, reaching to loosen Victor's scarf and undo his coat. "Why don't I draw you a bath instead," he offered. "I'll go to the store. And then we can make dinner?"

"That," Victor smiled, and _there_ , the soft one, just for Yuuri, "sounds like my favorite kind of evening, zolotse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sort your shit out, figure skating. 
> 
> (writing this chapter felt like banging my head against the wall - apologies if reading it feels the same way! As always, typos may exist and their gentle correction is welcome.)


	6. Team Binktop

It felt like years instead of months, but Victor was once again jetlagged at Logan International airport, Yuuri keeping a firm grip on his hand and searching for someone familiar. This time, the sign was neon green and boasting a large photo of him clearly sacrificed from a poster, covered in gold glitter and four leaf clovers. _Good Luck Victor Nikiforov_ , his name in cyrillic that looked more like studied drawings than letters. Victor was overtired and feeling a little sour; there was a faint sharp stinging in his eyes that he assumed was from the recycled air and fluorescent lighting. But then he heard James' little shout, and suddenly Victor was being nearly bowled over by a skinny American. James hooked one arm over Yuuri's shoulders and the other over Victor's, standing on his tip-toes to accommodate Victor's height.

"God," he laughed. "It's good to see you two."

Victor was too stunned to stoop so James didn't have to strain to hug him, but then Paul was there too, his giant, 6-foot wingspan easily encircling them all, and it was Yuuri's soft sighing laugh, Phichit grinning behind James' shoulder while he filmed with his phone, and Paul's big hand warm on his back. Before he could think about it, Victor pressed his face into James' neck, hugged his free arm around Paul and tightened his grip on Yuuri's hand to what must have surely been painful. He melted, the tension pouring out of his back and out of his heart and leaking, silent, from his eyes.

"Victor?!"

Yuuri's hand was on his chest, and the little line that had etched itself permanently between his eyes at some point in Japan was deeper, but James took Victor's face in his hands, giving him a teary smile.

"Sorry," Victor rasped, releasing Yuuri so he could rub his eyes. "Sorry, it's just–"

James pulled him in again, and he felt Paul's hand on the top of his head. "It's okay," Paul rumbled. "You're with friends."

 

Victor went to bed folded around Yuuri in the guest room, with Phichit snoring on an air mattress on the floor. Victor climbed carefully over him in the middle of the night when he couldn't fall asleep, and Paul found Victor curled on the sofa, reading, when he came downstairs in the morning to start coffee. Victor wordlessly joined him in the kitchen to make oatmeal. He was prepared for the salt Yuuri and Phichit added to theirs, but not the heavy, horrifying glug of maple syrup James poured over his. Paul just rolled his eyes and refilled Victor's coffee cup. After breakfast was a flurry of activity; repacking and organizing. The luggage for three international figure skaters, one self-certified clothes diva, and Paul, meant they departed Boston that morning in two cars. Paul was putting the last bag of groceries into the back seat of his Jeep when James handed the keys of his Prius to Yuuri.

"Giants in the big car," James smiled at Victor, nodding towards the Jeep.

"Are you going to drive?" he asked in awe, and Yuuri had the decency to look slightly embarrassed about it before Phichit piped up.

"Yuuri always drives! James is hopeless at directions and I only drove once before Yuuri said I couldn't anymore." He pouted, and Yuuri's flush became indignant.

"You nearly put us in the _ditch_ , Phichit! Trying to liveblog!"

"It was one time!"

James spoke over both of them with the practised ease of someone used to their squabbles. "Yuuri knows the traffic rules to drive on either side of the road, and his hands are always at ten and two." He laughed. "If we’re good he'll let us pick the satellite radio station."

"No." Yuuri's voice was flat with an authority, and James gave Victor – who was also well versed in the totalitarian dictatorship of Stereo Yuuri – a little smile. "We are not listening to five hours of club jams or Thai musicals. But if you are good I will take you through the drive-thru."

"Yay! Frosties!" Phichit beamed and climbed into the backseat of the Prius.

Yuuri rolled his eyes and sighed, the corners of his lips curled up to betray his smile. "Have fun in the adults car," he said, leaning up to give Victor a quick kiss on the cheek.

Victor did not, in fact, make for very fun company; within twenty minutes his head was lolling into his chest. After he jerked upright for a third time, Paul switched the radio station from Rihanna to quiet jazz. "Lean the seat back and sleep, Victor," he said, checking his mirrors and merging. Victor didn't even protest; the Jeep had seat warmers and he was wearing Yuuri's scarf, blue and soft and smelling exactly like the crook of Yuuri's neck. Victor shut his eyes in relief and slept through their pit stop in Concord. He woke up – disoriented at suddenly finding himself in the woods – to the noise of James rapping gently on the window.

Victor took as many bags as he could carry, walking carefully up the freshly shovelled driveway so he didn't slip. He was right behind everyone, and when they walked into the cabin, it was like getting hit with a wall of heat and sound. He had agreed, in the off season, to this weekend. Three days in the Adirondacks with Yuuri and Phichit's friends from the US, a break before Skate America and the GPF. He had agreed when he would have done anything to make Yuuri smile, to heal the quiet heartbreak in Yuuri's eyes, and that was before Rostelecom and before the NHK, so he was going to have to make the best of it. Victor set down his bags, took off his sunglasses, and made sure he was smiling.

"They're here!!"

"Hey, it's Yuuri!"

"Ahhhhh, guys, come help with stuff!"

And then, booming over top of everyone: "WHERE IS MY SWEETNESS?!"

Yuuri flushed bright red and Phichit laughed, and suddenly an impossibly tiny woman with pale purple hair was barrelling towards them. "Yuuri! Phichit!" She flung her arms out and they both stooped down to hug her.

"Oh my god, I missed this," she sighed, drawing back to look at both of them. Her brown eyes were almost the same colour as Yuuri's, her otherwise alabaster skin peppered with freckles. She let Phichit take three photos, and then she asked "Did you guys eat?"

Yuuri laughed. "Yes, Emma, I promise we did. Do not believe whatever Phichit tells you."

"Excuse you, I have only eaten twice today! Em, they're starving me!"

She made a sympathetic noise and started dragging them into the cabin, but Yuuri put a staying hand on her arm. "Ah, Emma, this is Victor," he smiled.

"Victor!!"

Emma was barely five feet tall but she came at Victor like a cannonball. He had to bend almost in half to return her enthusiastic hug, and then nearly got whiplash from how abruptly she pushed away to look up at him. "It's nice to meet you Emma," he started, but got no further.

"Oh! God, please just Em. Holy shit. You're Victor Nikiforov!" she beamed at him, and before he could unleash the signature Nikiforov charm, her eyes sharpened with almost eagle-like accuracy. "You have not eaten."

"Ah, no, I haven't, oh–"

Yuuri waved at him over his shoulder as Victor was steered out of the entryway, past what looked like a half-finished game of monopoly in the living room, and plunked down at an enormous kitchen table. Em picked up four empty beer bottles and smiled winsomely at Victor. "Sandwich?" She nodded to herself before he could answer and walked into the kitchen. By the time Yuuri reappeared, Victor was four bites into the greatest turkey club he'd ever eaten in his life.

"Vitya," Yuuri laughed, "you're moaning."

"I'm sorry," he said, licking red pepper pesto off a finger. "I think I probably have to marry this sandwich."

"That's fair," Yuuri replied knowingly. Em had reappeared with an open bottle of beer for Victor, and she handed Yuuri the other one. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and smiled down at her fondly. "You can have the sandwich, I'll marry Emma."

Victor groaned around his fifth bite. "So smart zolotse! Unlimited sandwiches. Would the two of you consider an open marriage?"

"I think we’d have to," Em smiled. "My boyfriend would probably be a bit put out. Yuu-yu, I know it's a bit early, but I brought your cake."

Yuuri made a face Victor had only seen in the presence of katsudon, or when Victor managed to touch that one place inside of him that finally unlocked his voice. "Em," Yuuri said quietly, but then he shook his head so quickly his glasses almost flew off. "Wait! Don't distract me. Boyfriend?"

She laughed delightedly, a warm tinkling sound. "It's early stages, but you'd like him! Let me get a beer Yuu-yu. Manny, our hero, bought the Canadian stuff over the border for us, so I will only need one for this story."

Emma disappeared again into the kitchen and Yuuri sat across from Victor, taking a sip from his beer. He sighed contentedly and smiled at Victor.

"Emma was a rink mate of mine," he said, and Victor thought he might already know this, but was grateful for the refresher. "She was a pairs skater, the first year I was in Detroit, but she had to stop. Her partner wasn't working out and she didn't really have the means to continue if she didn't want to skate with him. But Celestino kept her on to train younger skaters while she finished college because she's an amazing jumper."

Victor made a sympathetic sound around his sandwich. Their sport was expensive, even if – like Victor and Yuuri did – you came from a program that was state-subsidized. Victor had been skating at Dynamo when he was five, living in an athletes dorm by age seven, the face of the Russian Junior program at thirteen. It wasn't until he was trying to break out creatively and overcome what he believed to be a stylistic rut that he realized they had been moulding him into a very specific image of a figure skater the entire time. He'd been desperate then, to surprise people, to be something other than another cookie-cutter Russian on the podium. But he'd needed money to do that, money that was not coming directly from the federation, and Victor was fortunately good-looking, personable, and easy to work with. He built up sponsors, began commissioning his own music and designing his own costumes, creating bold and different choreography that was all his own. Yakov had hated it, the FFKKR had hated it, but by that time Victor had been consistently winning, and no one could stop him.

"I _was_ an amazing jumper," Emma sighed, slipping into the chair next to Yuuri. She set a little plate with a sliced apple and some natural peanut butter spread over grainy crackers in front of him almost like it was an afterthought. "I can't even hit a double axel anymore." She glared down at her rounded middle and then laughed. "But I like looking like myself, you know? The USFS would have had a heart attack if I showed up at regionals with my hair like this."

"It's cute," Yuuri smiled, a piece of apple crunching against his teeth as he took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully and then picked up a cracker. "Do you want me to help you get your axel back?"

Emma snorted and took a drink of her beer. "God no! Do you know, I can finally stand through a whole dinner service now without having to wear my ankle brace? My knees still click when I walk though." She winked. "Things to look forward to, Yuuri."

 

Several hours later, after an unbelievable dinner cooked by Emma, a rousing chorus of early Happy Birthday for Yuuri and a thin sliver of what Victor had to admit was an unfairly good chocolate cake, a few more beers and a very enthusiastic game of charades, Victor felt pleasantly warm. It was dark outside but the cabin was lit with small pot lights, and a fire had been going all evening in the open living room, making light dance over the walls and furniture and filling the air with the scent of cedar and wood smoke. Victor had just won his first ever game of cribbage and offered, graciously, to refill his opponent's wine.

In the kitchen, he found Yuuri alone, leaning against the counter and looking out the window over the sink, and for a moment Victor stood and watched him. Yuuri had an innate ability to always look comfortable in his clothes; today he was wearing a button-down shirt and a cable knit cardigan, thick woolly ankle socks and jeans that Victor knew were buttery soft. He was still wearing his wool cap, the one with the little ears that on anyone else his age would have looked impossibly juvenile. He tilted his chin up to take a drink from his can of Sapporo, and Victor was arrested by the elegance Yuuri could imbue in the simplest movement, the arch of his wrist and the curve of his neck. Victor was conscious of himself, his mannerisms and his limbs, and he knew he stood with the kind of deportment that made people straighten in his presence. But Yuuri did all of that effortlessly, without even thinking about it. He turned slightly to set his can on the counter, and caught sight of Victor's reflection in the window.

"Hey," he smiled.

"Hi."

Victor walked into the kitchen and set his hands on the counter on either side of Yuuri's hips. He brushed his lips against Yuuri's cheek, and Yuuri pushed up onto the balls of his feet to wrap his arms around Victor's neck and give him a kiss in return.

"Are you having fun?" he asked.

"Your friends are nice," Victor smiled, setting his forehead against Yuuri's.

"Mm."

Yuuri started to sway slightly, and Victor laced his fingers together at the small of Yuuri's back. He couldn't remember the last time they'd danced together and he was content to be led shuffling around the linoleum floor to the soft music floating over the cabin from the Sirius XM radio. The song was slow, with quiet lyrics, and Victor didn't know it, but Yuuri softly hummed along.

_Oh, oh I love you. Where'd you go to? Dear, where are you?_

He didn't know if he stepped closer, or if Yuuri did, but they were barely moving, pressed up against each other, and the back of Victor's throat hurt. Yuuri's fingers were stroking carefully through the hair at the nape of Victor's neck, and they stayed that way until the song faded out, and Yuuri drew away from him.

"Were you supposed to refill Ben's wine for him?" he asked softly.

"Ah… yes." Victor had forgotten both his errand and the name of the person it was on behalf of.

Yuuri turned to fill the glass with a bottle from the corner of the counter, and Victor let him slip out of his arms. He stood watching Yuuri's shoulders move under his sweater, something impossible lodged into his chest that he couldn't voice. It felt like he was under water; sunk deep beneath the surface. He wanted to be with Yuuri and have it be easy and light, as though every day were like the sun sparkling off the sea in Hasetsu. Instead there were so many walls now within himself, and Victor wasn't sure where they'd come from, or how to climb over them.

"Ah! Yuuri!"

Yuuri looked up from the wine, halfway through jamming the cork back into the bottle, and smiled at James. He had a familiar coat draped over his shoulders, and Yuuri's eyebrow arched over the rim of his glasses. "Were you going through my luggage?" he laughed.

James sauntered into the kitchen, his hands stroking over the blue leather of Yuuri's new Hermes bomber jacket. Paul leaned on the counter next to Yuuri and shook his head fondly, and Phichit filmed James' catwalk turn.

"Luggage? Yuuri, you have a treasure chest upstairs!" James touched the tip of one finger to the fur stripe across his chest reverently. "Can I be buried in this jacket?"

"Yes," Yuuri promised solemnly.

James' eyes went large and impossibly round. He'd had a lot to drink. "Yuuuuuuu-yuuu!" He reached out and cupped Yuuri's face in his hands, then kissed him on the nose. "I love you!"

Laughter erupted around them and Yuuri set both of his hands over James'. "I know. I know you do, Jamie," he laughed. "And all of my coats."

"Not the tan one," James sniffed, and they were all laughing again while Yuuri made an indignant noise, but James just mushed Yuuri's cheeks together. "So cute. My sweet Yuuri. Haaaa! I'll always love you so much."

Yuuri's eyes flickered briefly to Victor and then away, and Victor hated the way the line between his eyes deepened. He watched Yuuri flush slightly and take James' hands gently from his face. "But you love Paul most, right Jamie?" he said quietly.

"I sure do!" James did a little spin and snuggled into Paul's side, who put his arm around his husband and smiled down at him. "I loved you first though Yuu-yu."

"And I loved you second!" Phichit cheered.

Yuuri's lips quirked, and he shot Phichit a fondly exasperated look. "I'm not sure that is exactly the same, Phichit-kun."

Phichit waved a hand at him dismissively. "Anyways, Paul has decided he wants to win at PUBG for once, so I need you. Team Phichuuri Unstoppable Force!"

"Ah, right," Yuuri smiled and adjusted his glasses over his nose, that sharp determined look coming into his eyes. He collected his beer and Ben's wine, and followed them out into the living room. Victor trailed after and sank into the corner armchair, rubbing at his nose. When Yuuri joined him later, sitting on his lap and wrapping an arm around Victor's shoulders, he had become a little tipsy. "Can we go upstairs?" he asked in Japanese, slipping his other hand under Victor's shirt to teasingly stroke his skin. "Can we play our game?"

Victor took Yuuri's hand out of his shirt and kissed his knuckles. "I'm tired solnyhsko, is it okay if we just sleep?"

 

Yuuri woke up early, accustomed always, to his training schedule. He slid his glasses on and then lay back against his pillow, watching Victor sleep in the pale grey light. It made Victor's skin seem washed out, and Yuuri was tempted to reach out and gather Victor to him, to warm him up with his own body until Victor looked softly flushed and appropriately cared for. Instead he slipped carefully out of bed and downstairs to the kitchen. Yuuri stood in a small patch of light from the window over the sink, stretching against the counter while the waited for the water to boil, and then he dug a few things out of the fridge and tried to cook as quietly as he could manage. It would be hours before any of his hungover friends stumbled out of bed, but Victor was sitting up and running his hands through his hair when Yuuri pushed the door open, carrying a tray set for two.

"Breakfast," he said softly, setting his tray over Victor's lap. "Scrambled eggs for Skate America's top billed competitor."

Victor made a face that Yuuri hoped was not about the eggs. "Why they would put me on the posters, I don't know. I should downgrade to triples in my free." He picked up his mug and took a tentative sip, but Yuuri had lived with him long enough to know that Victor liked his tea both ridiculously strong and, in the absence of a sweetener, very milky. Victor smiled over the lip of his mug. "Good morning, lyubov."

Yuuri leaned across the tray to kiss Victor's cheek. "Good morning," he responded in Japanese, picking up a piece of toast and his own mug, in which the sencha was properly steeped and there was not a drop of dairy. He blew across his tea and drank it quietly for a few minutes, watching Victor eat his breakfast. "What would you like to do today?" he asked. The plan for this weekend had been no training, no practice, just a weekend off to enjoy themselves, but that had been before the Grand Prix series imploded in Osaka, before dancing to Blue Monday had nearly made Victor cry last night, so Yuuri was willing to do anything Victor wanted.

"I think everyone was talking about a hike yesterday," Victor said, folding a piece of smoked salmon over his fork.

"Ah, everyone will be asleep for awhile." Yuuri fiddled with the cuff of his track pants. "I thought we could do something just the two of us? Maybe go into town or for a walk…"

"Hmm…" Victor said, and Yuuri waited, watching Victor think. He rubbed at his lip with the side of his forefinger, and Yuuri flushed slightly at how attractive it was, the noise of Victor's stubble and the dawn light on his bare torso. "Could we… stay here?" Victor said at last. "You could play your new game and I could watch you."

"You want to watch me play video games?" Yuuri blinked. He reached out to touch his fingertips to Victor's forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"

Victor's smile was bashful. "I will probably read," he admitted, nose going a little pink. "But I like it up here. I like up here with you."

"Oh." Yuuri felt his cheeks get hot, and Victor's lips curled back even further. "Okay, then."

They set the tray on the floor by the door, and Yuuri piled all the pillows up and leaned back against them, his legs splayed to either side so Victor could lie with his head resting on Yuuri's belly. They curled the blankets over themselves and Yuuri let himself get lost in Breath of the Wild while Victor slowly turned the pages of a thick novel in cyrillic. The light from the large window behind them grew and softened, and the room smelled like the cedar roof planks above them, the soft linens of the bed around them, and cold, fresh air run through a dusty furnace.

"Yuuri?"

"Mm?"

"Do you ever think about what you would have done, if you didn't do this?"

Yuuri was tempted to crack a joke, tempted to tease, but Victor was watching him through the space between his chest and his Nintendo Switch, and the carefully controlled look on his face made Yuuri save his game and put it aside.

"If I wasn't figure skating?" Yuuri combed his fingers lightly through Victor's hair, pushing it back so he could see both of his sea-blue eyes. Victor nodded, and Yuuri gave him an honest answer.

"I would probably be fishing, in Hasetsu," he said with a little laugh. "We learned about it in school, how to read tides and the economics of canneries. I don't think anyone really expected so many people to leave… for the industry to dry up so quickly. But I would have stayed, because of the Onsen, so that's what I would have been doing. Nishigori's father has a boat, so I probably would have worked with them and on the days it was too stormy I would have stayed and helped at Yuu-topia. It's always busier in the winter on a dark day."

"Would you have been happy, to stay?"

"Mm…" Yuuri thought about it, trying to separate figure skating from the rest of his past. It was hard to do so; it was so much a part of him and his childhood.

"I suppose I would have felt… satisfied? A lot of why I left Japan was because I wanted to push myself to be a better skater; I always felt like there was more out there, more I could be doing to improve. I think I would have been content with my life, but maybe not happy always, to have stayed."

Victor frowned, and Yuuri set his finger into the divot between his eyebrows. "I would have had a good job," Yuuri explained, "and been able to help and support my family. But I think I would have been lonely. There aren't a lot of… ummm. Men… in Hasetsu…"

"Oh."

"Mm, oh," Yuuri laughed, embarrassed. He curled slightly and pressed a kiss onto Victor's forehead. "I guess maybe I could have taken Nakamura-kun up on his offer. I think though… he might be in Fukuoka now. Okasan said he teaches school."

"Who is Nakamura?" Victor sat up, looking at Yuuri now. There was a nonchalant smile quirking in the corner of his mouth, as though he was trying not to show how deeply interested he was, and Yuuri nearly laughed.

"My first kiss," Yuuri told him. "It was terrible."

"Yuuri! Was he a bad kisser, solnyshko?"

"Oh, no… nothing like that… I think it wasn't what he was expecting," Yuuri admitted. He'd been so overwhelmed by it that he had just bowed three times and rudely run off. "Mari-nee-chan said he wouldn't even look her in the eye when she saw him around town."

"Yuuuuuri! I'm sure it was too much for him, my Eros Katsudon." Victor curled up onto his side, his head tucked under Yuuri's chin. He was too big to sit that way, but Yuuri wrapped his arms around him anyway, and Victor played with the seam of Yuuri's sweatshirt for a few minutes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "But you did come to America. You met James."

"Yes." Yuuri kept his voice just as quiet. Victor's eyes were closed. "James was the next person I kissed."

"Was he… Yuuri, did he take care of you?"

"He… I cared about him a lot," Yuuri whispered. He'd never told this to anyone. "But he was going through so much, with his parents, and I didn't… I couldn't be there like I wanted to; I didn't have time. I wanted to make the Olympic team… it was so selfish, Vitya, but I was so relieved when he came home at Christmas break and said he had met someone."

Victor's arm snaked around his middle, pressing himself in closer. "Not selfish, Yuuri. I promise, sweetheart."

Yuuri set his cheek against the top of Victor's head and nodded, and they sat that way for a long time, holding onto one another, until Yuuri's neck started to hurt. He straightened slightly and then smiled down at Victor. "It worked out, I guess. James is very happy, and I kissed other people."

Victor's eyes widened, his lips almost making a heart. "How many?" he begged. "Tell me Yuuri."

"Hmmm…" He flushed. Yuuri didn't want to actually reveal the amount of first dates that went nowhere afterwards and drunken make-outs he'd been privy to, and Victor already knew about his old boyfriends. "After James…" he mused, almost to himself, "there wasn't really anyone important. Not really, until Phichit."

Victor sat up so quickly Yuuri fell forwards and had to brace himself with his elbow so he didn't face-plant into Victor's lap. "You slept with _Phichit_?!"

"No!" Yuuri gasped, jerking upright and waving his hands frantically. It was still early, but Yuuri really didn't need Victor's shout to wake up anyone, least of all Phichit downstairs. "It was nothing like that," he explained quietly. "I... he kissed me. Once."

Victor stared at him, and Yuuri exhaled sharply in frustration. This wasn't his story to tell anyone. He reached out to hold both of Victor's hands in his own, looking away, out the window where the naked tree branches were shaking slightly in the breeze.

"When Phichit came to Detroit, he was really homesick. And I understood, I… we were similar. So I looked out for him – Phichit says we adopted each other. I took him out with my friends, things like that, and Phichit… we talked a lot, about how unsure he felt, about who he was attracted to. That was the hardest part for him, I think, to feel alone but also confused – confused about who he wanted. It just sort of came to a head; this one night Phichit was staying at my apartment after we'd gone out. He'd danced with a guy who gave him his phone number, and Phichit was… well, freaking out about it." Yuuri laughed fondly, remembering. "He was panicking because he'd been on one date with a girl back home and had never kissed anyone before, and now he had a guy's phone number. He seemed excited, but then… he cried."

"Yuuri…" Victor's fingers stroked over the backs of his hands, but Yuuri couldn't look at him.

"And I… Phichit is so great. He's going to make someone so happy, and I didn't want him to cry about being unsure. I didn't want him to be afraid to be whatever he wanted to be. So I offered… I don't know, I guess a kiss just seemed like a safe way to show him it was okay. Okay to want that…"

"Sweetheart," Victor breathed, his grip on Yuuri's hands tightening.

"It was… it made him really happy? And we had a long talk, you know… about how it was okay to want more than one thing, or something different. So – that's all it was. Just… meaningful but not."

"And you care about him," Victor said quietly, nodding.

"Yes," Yuuri agreed, and he shrugged a bit hopelessly over his inability to explain it. Victor lifted Yuuri's hands to his lips and kissed them.

"Did Phichit call that guy?" he mumbled against Yuuri's knuckles.

Yuuri laughed softly. "The date went really badly, but the waiter kicked him out and paid for Phichit's dinner, and the two of them dated for just over a year."

"A happy ending," Victor smiled, and Yuuri nodded.

"After that… I didn't kiss anyone for a long time." He smiled shyly. "Until I got kissed in China."

Victor pulled Yuuri into his arms and flopped sideways so they were both sprawled on the bed. Yuuri adjusted himself until he was in that comfortable dip in Victor's side, with his legs cushioning Victor's knees and right foot, the gentle tangle he liked most to sleep in. He traced his fingers in soft circles on Victor's shoulder.

"I've only kissed two other people," Victor said quietly. "In the beginning I was always so busy… I had so much training and school work, and everyone around me was also working so hard. And I didn't quite know..." He sighed and closed his eyes. "I kissed someone that maybe I shouldn't have, before you."

Yuuri hummed softly, pressing in closer to Victor's side. Victor's fingers were running through his hair, and his lips brushed against Yuuri's hairline – and Yuuri wanted, he wanted Victor so desperately, wanted to breathe _kiss me now, I'm right here_ and follow through with softness and care – but he made himself lie still. Eventually Victor's fingers slowed and stopped, his breath evening out and deepening into sleep.

"I'm glad I'm not fishing," Yuuri whispered, tracing his fingers over Victor's cheek.

 

Victor woke up in their attic room a second time, alone and disoriented. He sat up, grumpy and with the beginnings of a headache, and found Yuuri's note. _Didn't want to wake you for the hike. Em's left you a plate for lunch._ Victor scrubbed a hand over his face and pulled on his t-shirt and lounge pants, and then because it had been left hanging on the hook on the back of the door, Yuuri's cardigan. Victor stumbled his way down two flights of stairs, and when he arrived on the a main floor, Phichit was sprawled across a sofa by the fire, looking at his phone, and James was standing in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a soup bowl. He met Victor's arched eyebrow with a small grimace.

"Coffee?" he rasped, clearly hungover, and Victor nodded. He brushed past James to go to the refrigerator and retrieve the milk and his lunch.

They sat together at one end of the large table, Victor with a cold piece of chicken and a lentil salad that was more delicious than it probably had a right to be, and James with his bowl of coffee and a bagel spread with cream cheese. He broke it into little chunks and dipped it in the coffee, and after draining his bowl he seemed to revive.

"You look like shit, Victor," he said softly.

There was no malice in it, and James' eyes – soft brown today, in the woodsy afternoon light – were watching Victor with a friendly amount of concern. Victor scooped up the last bit of his lentils and shrugged. "I'm probably the oldest person here," he said with an easy smile. "Slower recovery time."

James stood and gathered up all their dishes with a little shake of his head. "That's not what I meant," he said, and went into the kitchen before Victor could respond. He sat, listening to James add their dishes to the dishwasher and turn it on, and then James called over the counter, loud enough to include Phichit in the living room. "Well, athletes, I think we all need a dip in the hot tub, don't you?"

Phichit scrambled to his feet excitedly, and Victor watched them smile at each other, and then at him expectantly, lost in the fresh knowledge that they had both kissed Yuuri, that Yuuri meant something dear to both of them. Victor had no excuse, so he let his own lips curl into a radiant, interview-ready smile. "That sounds like a great idea," he lied.

It appeared Yuuri's influence on all three of them extended deeper than they realized; Victor stood in the tub of the attic ensuite and scrubbed himself over with soap and a rough washcloth before he donned his swimsuit, and when he arrived back downstairs, James had shower dampened hair, and Phichit was still in the bathroom under running water. Victor tightened the sash on his robe and noticed something he hadn't before, in Boston.

"That polish colour is a good one for you," he told James, staring at his perfectly manicured toenails, painted sage green.

"Thanks," James smiled, wiggling his toes in his pool sandals. "I need to keep them short for running, and when the pavement season starts up, the massages and the salt baths are nice. Yuuri used to go with me, sometimes."

When Victor had first moved into the Onsen, there had been three bottles of nail polish scattered in the vanity of the Katsuki's private bathroom, which he'd assumed belonged to Mari. Until Yuuri's on-ice training started taking the usual toll on his feet, and Victor noticed one evening, as Yuuri slipped into the hot spring, that his toes were neatly lacquered black to hide the bruising. Three days before the Cup of China Victor learned that Yuuri painted his fingernails two shades darker than his own skin tone for televised competitions, to make them stand out for the judges. It was another piece of the complex puzzle that was Katsuki Yuuri, coveted and hoarded like Victor did with each treasured secret he unlocked. But it wasn't until the third bottle, vibrantly cherry red, appeared in Victor's own bathroom cupboard in St. Petersburg alongside the beige and black that he discovered all three belonged to Yuuri.

"Did he," Victor said, and pressed a hand to his eyes, which were still experiencing the occasional ache from oversleeping.

"Just once or twice," James admitted. "It took a lot of persuading, Yuuri hates to spoil himself, unless he can come up with a practical reason for it."

Victor smiled weakly, thinking about Yuuri's little sigh of pleasure every time he sunk into the Onsen after a hard practice or was allowed to eat something he enjoyed as a reward, the expensive sneakers he saved up for and only wore to dance in, how he determinately tried to fulfill his duties as a spokesperson by using boutique face creams and donning designer glasses it would never occur to him to buy for himself, because people were trusting him with their money. He let Victor buy him nice, frivolous things, but only because he knew it pleased Victor to do so. Victor's thumb touched the back of his engagement ring, an extravagance loaded with meaning he suspected Yuuri was still paying for in installments. "He's getting better at it," Victor said.

"We should go, then, this weekend," James grinned. "Paul talks a big game, but he loves a good paraffin."

Victor thought he could perhaps get his hands done; this deep into the season he wouldn't trust just anyone with his feet, but he was saved from making that point by Phichit. "We can get them done after the competition," Phichit explained to James seriously. "If you know a place in Boston that meets health codes. Nobody wants a bad case of athlete's foot before the GPF." Phichit yanked open the sliding door, and they all shivered, shuffling outside across the deck. They wrestled the cover off the hot tub, and when Phichit stepped out of his hamster slippers, his feet were just as bruised and abused as Victor's were. James shook his head at both of them.

"Right, I forgot how bad they get…"

Phichit just shrugged. "Nothing worthwhile is painless." He let that sit for a moment, and he and James broke into laughter, which Victor joined after a second. They sat for awhile in companionable silence, enjoying the pressure of the jets and the heat of the water, the juxtaposition of the sunshine and the cold air, until the sliding door opened again.

"Here you are," Emma smiled, and Phichit turned to fold his elbows on the lip of the hot tub.

"Are you guys back? How was the hike?"

Emma snorted. " _I'm_ back, because I know better than to trust Yuuri to mark our route. The rest of them are probably puking in the woods right now while Yuuri is obliviously enjoying the winter air. He's probably going to make them do another ten miles." She shuddered and shut the door behind her, walking across the deck wrapped in a towel. "Shove over, Chulanont."

She sank into the water next to Victor with a groan, promptly digging her fingers into her left ankle, and after a minute Phichit slapped her hand away and started rubbing it himself. "You know better Em, then to exert yourself."

"God I do, but we are all helpless against the Katsuki Doe-Eyed Assault," she laughed. "I haven't seen him in two years, of course I'm going to go schlepping through the woods with him if he asks me." She turned to Victor with a mischievous smile. "Have you built up an immunity yet?"

"No," he admitted. "I don't think it's possible. Thank you for lunch."

"Of course! Yuuri sent me your meal plans, they're great. Nothing like the bullshit Celestino puts together." She reached over to pat Phichit on the cheek. "You're lucky I love you, my Peach, because for anyone else I wouldn't attempt to decipher that nonsense."

Phichit blew a kiss at her, and Victor stretched out his hands, holding them flat on the surface and watching the water bubble over his fingers and around his ring. "When I put them together, Okasan had to be able to read them, because she was cooking for us. So…" he realized they were all staring at him, and wasn't sure why, until Phichit put down Emma's ankle.

"What's Yuuri's mom like?" James asked. He looked slightly wistful.

"She's…" Victor thought about it, a hundred memories colliding overtop of one another; of the way her eyes crinkled behind her glasses and how her smile was always warm, the way she called him Vicchan and the habit she had of taking hold of his wrist when she wanted to show him how to make tea or where the towels were or Yuuri's baby albums, of how she'd draped her haori over his shoulders as he sat, tense and jet-lagged, hugging his recovering dog and watching on the Onsen's television as Yuuri fought for his GPF spot at Rostelecom.

"She's incredible. She's an amazing woman."

Phichit shot James a wry smirk. "Who knew," he said quietly, "that the best way to get Yuuri to introduce you to his family was to just show up at their house."

Victor blinked, and he was suddenly hit with a startling realization. "He invited me," he clarified in awe.

* * *

Everything about Lake Placid was historic, and it reminded Victor, painfully, of Yakov. Victor had grown up at the fall of the Soviet Union; he just barely remembered having to line up for groceries and sharing a communal apartment. Yakov had liked to put Victor in his place with stories about competing as a member of the USSR; about the group of KGB officials that had accompanied their team to the 1980 Olympics to keep the Iron Curtain in place. Those things had existed for Victor at the beginning of his career too, but he'd been too young to really understand why. Now he was old enough to know that it had been his stable of quads and marketable smile that had revitalized Russian skating, elevated the old post-Soviet regime into something that could be new and fresh – and non-threatening – too. Everything about his image, glamourous, European, cultured, was built upon the new idea of St. Petersburg, a modern artistic hub, burgeoning with capitalism and wealth. And now, decades later, Victor was trailing behind his Japanese fiancé at the Olympic Museum, reading about the Miracle on Ice like it wasn't the most devastating thing to happen to his country in the history of sport. Yuuri took his hand at some point during the tour, but Victor didn't notice until they were back outside, on the steps in front of the museum in the gathering dark, when Yuuri let go of it.

"Are you getting hungry?" Yuuri asked, his hands hidden in the pockets of his bomber jacket. Victor had noticed that Yuuri had a habit of dressing a little more sporty when they were in smaller towns in North America; his hair was tucked into a blue baseball cap with a yellow _M_ embroidered on the front. Victor knew that Phichit had organized a pre-competition dinner of sorts tonight, with Leo and Otabek – skaters Yuuri knew and was friendly with – as well as with their friends who had stayed in Lake Placid for the competition. He knew that Yuuri didn't get to see his American friends very often, but he still shook his head. The sightseeing Victor had suggested was having it's opposite intended effect; Victor felt needlessly melancholy, and he wanted to wrap around Yuuri in their hotel suite and not let go of him until he had to go to open practice in the morning. Yuuri hummed and turned into the wind, his shoulders curling against the chill.

"Want to stay in?" he suggested, looking ahead of them as he steered Victor down the sidewalk in the direction of their hotel. "And maybe order room service?"

The corners of Victor's eyes watered in the wind. "Yes, please."

 

Yuuri emerged from his bathroom the morning of the short program to excited catcalls from the three people sprawled on the spare bed. Emma was leaning over, adjusting the cuff of her jeans above her ankle boot, and she nearly fell off the corner of the bed in surprise while Paul gave James a congratulatory high five on his handiwork.

"Wow, Yuu-yu," Em said, grinning.

Yuuri straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, posture that would have made Minako-sensei tear up with pride.

"Do I look like a 'sinister yaposhka seducer'?" he asked, quoting _Pravda's_ latest thinkpiece as he gazed at his friends through his eyelashes. Victor had cancelled his subscription months ago, but Yuuri was not immune to the headlines that leapt out at him from street corners, or the way the cashier at Global Gourmet did a double-take and glanced at the tabloids in the check-out when she was ringing through their groceries. It was his first appearance at a competition solely as Victor's partner, and Yuuri knew it didn't matter what he wore – even dressed conservatively, in his usual cuffed jeans and Muji sweaters, they were still going to paint him as some sort of villain. It didn't matter, so Yuuri figured he might as well lean in.

After Victor had left their hotel room that morning, grumbling about having to go to the rink so early and kissing Yuuri goodbye, Yuuri had called in his troops and gone purposefully to the hotel closet where all of Victor's clothes were hanging, pristinely pressed and organized grouped by outfit. He'd unzipped his suitcase and considered his options with James before they'd finally selected a white cotton dress-shirt that draped like silk in his hands and had an indecipherable Italian label. Victor's shirts all had two seams that ran down the back, tailored to accommodate his broad shoulders and the way his body tapered into his slim waist; on Yuuri, the shoulder seams hung off his narrower build and the slightly longer sleeves had the cuffs brushing the backs of his hands. The shirt was not too much bigger than one of Yuuri's own – it billowed only slightly from where it was tucked into his nicest pair of black jeans thanks to those two back seams – but it was clearly not his shirt. It was silky soft and smelled like Victor's cologne.

Yuuri pushed up his pair of Kuboraum H10 glasses up by the corner, careful not to disrupt the coif he'd slicked his hair into, grinning at James' delighted laugh. Em covered her face with her hands for a minute while Yuuri pushed his feet into his fur-lined loafers and collected his secretly packed Dior overcoat from the back of a chair. Emma's hands gathered into prayer at her lips.

"Are you sure you don't like girls, Yuuri?" she asked, smiling sadly.

Yuuri laughed. "Sorry," he shook his head. Em sighed and climbed to her feet, threading her arm through his with a creak of her leather jacket.

"Fine. My life is full of tragedies," she shrugged, pulling out her phone. "All right boys: selfie!"

 

Victor missed the post on Instagram – _FLAWLESS @y_katsuki @paulie14 @bojamezles_ _#IWokeUpLikeThis #TeamBinktop #TeamChulanont_ # _ChampionsOnly #SkateAmerica2017_ – because he was doing interviews at the rink. He kept his answers vacantly professional and skirted around questions about Yuuri, talking in circles until a familiar face in an event jacket arrived, carrying a walkie-talkie.

"Sorry to interrupt," Ben said, pushing the thick black frames of his glasses up his nose, "but Mr. Nikiforov is needed in the athletes area." He took Victor by the elbow and steered him deeper towards the arena.

"Thank you," Victor said quietly, and Ben's lips quirked, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth behind his glasses.

"Yeah, well, when Yuuri asks you for a favour, first you recover from the shock, and then you do it, you know?"

Victor felt his nose get hot. "Yes."

Ben opened a locker room door, where Victor's hard case had conveniently been wheeled, wiggling his walkie-talkie. "Word on the street is that your guest is here; I'm going to go get him. You shouldn't be bothered in the meantime."

Alone, Victor started his warm-up stretches, the white noise provided by the forced air of the heating system producing a nearly deafening silence. He was rolling his shoulders out when a soft knock sounded on the opening door, and Victor's mouth fell open.

"Hi," Yuuri smiled.

He was definitely wearing eyeliner, and his eyelashes, which on a normal day were impossibly long and thick, framed his gorgeous dark eyes in a curling fan. Victor didn't know what was easier to focus on, the sharp structure of his cheekbones, the firm cut of his jaw, or the fullness of his lips. Yuuri smelled like Victor's cologne, he had the shoes Victor had bought for him on and was carrying the coat Victor had secretly ordered for him from Dior, he was _wearing Victor's Barba Napoli shirt_ – he looked like he'd stepped out of one of Victor's own heady fantasies from the latter half of the 2016 season.

"Hi," he breathed.

"Ah, look at my badge," Yuuri said with a soft little smile, his cheeks petal pink as he held his pass up, which said "Victor Nikiforov - Coach" underneath his name, and featured Yuuri's standard JSF photo. Victor took hold of it and Yuuri laughed, adorably giddy. "This is like a wild dream. Ben says you're skating last in the top flight, so I won't get in the way of your prep. I just wanted to make sure I wished you good luck…"

Victor nodded. "Will you stay?" he asked softly, slightly hoarse. The interviews had taken more out of him than he'd thought. He cleared his throat and smiled bravely, straightening Yuuri's badge for him. "If you want to. If you want to watch the other skaters with James and Paul, then–"

Yuuri's fingers trailed lightly across the back of Victor's hand, and his head tilted slightly, the way it did when he was happily indulging Victor's whims. "Of course I will Vitya, do you want to do your run-through? I'll spot you."

 

Victor didn't pay much attention to the other competitors, or what was going on out on the ice. Instead Yuuri watched patiently over him while he did run-throughs, stepping in once to reposition Victor's arms. He laid Victor's mat out and worked him through his warm-up stretches. He zipped Victor into his costume, folding his track pants up carefully. He massaged Victor's feet and inspected Victor's skates, handing them to him one at a time and accepting a running shoe in return, tucking them neatly into Victor's bag. It was completely unnecessary, but Yuuri knelt on the cold cement of the locker room, Victor's boot held steady between his thighs, providing resistance for Victor to pull his laces tight. Once they were tied, Yuuri bent, lifted Victor's right foot by the ankle, and pressed a kiss onto the inside arch of his skate – the spot where two screws kept his once broken bone fused together, always prone to aches when Victor constricted his foot into his boot – and then set a hand on Victor's shoulder to help himself up. Yuuri loomed over Victor for a moment, a soft smile on his face as he reached out to set the tips of his fingers on the curled wave of Victor's hair. "I like your hair like this," he said quietly. 

Victor kissed the inside of Yuuri's wrist with a small hum.

"Do you want me to come out for the six-minute warm-up?" Yuuri asked, setting Victor's water bottle and Chanel lip balm on the bench, next to the Makkachin tissue box. Victor nodded, and Yuuri leaned over again to remove Victor's pass for him without messing up his hair, absently pulling it over his own head while he organized Victor's bag. Yuuri pulled Victor to his feet when the runner knocked on the door, rounding up the remaining skaters in the flight, and Victor paused for a moment, his hands on Yuuri's slender hips. 

"Thank you," he said.

Yuuri just nodded, eyes scanning the room to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Ready?"

Victor leaned forward and brushed his lips against Yuuri's hairline, a faint kiss, for luck. "I am now, zolotse moya."

 

Victor hated the moment right before the music started, but as he organized his limbs into place and lifted his chin with delicate grace, his gaze settled on a figure standing at the boards across the rink, dressed up just for him and pink-cheeked. Yuuri's shy flush morphed into a stunning, excited smile, his dark eyes sparkling like he possessed all the secrets to the universe, and would share them with Victor alone. Yuuri nodded once, and Victor's nose heated, remembering his desolate World's in 2016 when he'd had Yakov, he'd had the fans and the records and the victories, and all he had wanted was Yuuri, rink side and believing. It was strange how much could change in a year and a half, from one season to another. In the empty quiet there was only the sound of Victor's heartbeat and that assured nod. With poignant clarity, he understood. Victor was going to skate, not for the audience or even really the judges, but for a kind and loving man, who'd been his fan for longer than Victor probably deserved. 

_Watch me, this is for you._

Sigur Ros came soft into the arena, and Victor knew he wasn't currently at his best – there was too much darkness and hollowness in him, and he was so tired – but even with that weight threatening to drag him under, he could give himself, always, for Yuuri.

_I want to be what you need. I want to fight beside you. I want to be yours._

The program had only three jumping passes, because that was all the ISU required, a quad flip, a quad toe-triple toe combination, and finally, a mandatory triple axel. Victor did them without thinking about them, and poured his energy into the spread eagle, the combination spin, the achingly beautiful step sequences that he knew Yuuri practiced when he thought Victor wasn't there to watch him. He tried to make them as emotional as Yuuri did, he tried to reach into himself and be in that space Yuuri went to, because Victor could emote on the ice, but Yuuri always _feels_ , raw and visceral and stunning, and each time Yuuri had skated Festival, alone in the private rink at night, Victor had been moved to tears.

_I love you so much, and I don't know what to do._

He spun slowly to a stop at centre ice, his hands gathering the air before him and bringing it in to his heart, the right under the left. He raised his head slowly, emotion probably too obvious on his face, to once again meet Yuuri's gaze, except his fiancé was bowed over the boards, his hands jammed under his glasses, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

_Oh no, Yuuri! Sweetheart!_

Victor barely bowed, four quick sweeps of the ice and then he was skating to the kiss and cry. He would have crashed into the boards – because stopping was the furthest thing from his mind when wrapping Yuuri up against him was his first priority – but thankfully the page managed to wrench the door open in time. Victor was known for always thanking the door volunteer, but he took two balanced steps onto the carpet and smothered Yuuri into his body, burying his face into Yuuri's hair like they were the only two people in the rink.

"Zolotse," he gasped, short of breath. "Yuuri, darling…"

Yuuri's hands slid against Victor's chest and wrapped tightly around his back. His voice came muffled out of the soft velvet of Victor's shirt. "That was, I can't – I'm sorry it was…" he shook his head and made a frustrated noise into the front of Victor's costume.

"Can I see you, lyubov?" he asked gently, and Yuuri pulled away shyly, his face an adorable wreck. Victor cupped the back of Yuuri's head in one hand, relieved he was breathing clearly. "Sorry," he whispered. "I've made you cry again, solnyshko."

"Victor…" Yuuri rubbed the back of his hand against his cheek, shaking his head.

He took Yuuri by the hand and sat with him in the kiss and cry, one arm around Yuuri's waist. They were showing replay of Victor's skate on the central scoreboard, and they both watched wordlessly; Yuuri set his hand over Victor's on his knee and took Victor's other hand from his hip, bringing it forward so he was sitting in an almost circle of Victor's arms. They looked cute when the screen cut to the two of them sitting there, attentively watching the replay, and Yuuri's face flushed but he settled a little closer against Victor and threaded their fingers together.

"You didn't pick up any of your gifts," Yuuri murmured, as flower girls darted around the ice trying to round up everything, and the crowd started chanting the blending of their names that Phichit had coined on instagram.

Victor pressed his face into the side of Yuuri's head, his nose in Yuuri's hair and his lips above Yuuri's ear. "Yes I did," he smiled, as the chanting grew louder. "The most beautiful gift in the whole rink. So elegantly wrapped and smelling like my cologne…"

* * *

Victor won gold the next day, despite Skate America's insistence on throwing every bizarre obstacle it could come up with at the competitors. Several skaters suffered strange bug bites, the ice itself proved to be in poor shape, and Leo skated to a fourth place finish with a dislocated shoulder. None of those things touched Victor though, because he had Yuuri there as a stand-in coach; waking him from his nap, taping Victor's knees and ensuring he ate a banana. Victor's marks weren't as high, which was to be expected skating outside of his home country, and he didn't break any records, but he still beat everyone by a fair margin. Victor hauled Otabek and Phichit up onto the first place podium with him so he didn't have to stand stoically through the Hymn of the Russian Federation alone, and did his victory lap hand-in-hand with Phichit, helping him unfurl his Thai flag out behind them.

At the medalist's press conference, Victor half listened to the introductions by the ISU representative running media relations while he admired Yuuri sitting with the other coaches in the front row – immaculately put together in dark wash jeans and his Hermes bomber jacket with Victor's own sky blue mohair sweater underneath, deliciously oversized and soft on him – who was smiling down at Victor's bouquet of flowers across his lap.

"Yes, my question is for Mr. Altin?" said the first reporter, and Otabek nodded for him to continue. "Congratulations on your bronze, Mr. Altin; you said after the NHK that you were dedicating your performances at the Internationaux and here this weekend to your competitor Yuri Plisetsky, how has your relationship with him pushed you to succeed?"

Otabek's expression did not budge at all, and Victor was impressed with his poker face. "It's unfortunate any time a figure skater is injured." Otabek said. "I'm pleased with my gold in France and proud I could hold my own here against a very deep field." He sat back then, apparently satisfied he had answered the reporter's question, which he in no way really had. The next reporter, obviously trying to build on a theme, directed their question at Victor.

"Mr. Nikiforov, was there anyone you were skating your programs for?"

"I always skate for my gold medal, of course," Victor winked, and Yuuri frowned into his geraniums, his cheeks turning red.

The next reporter was from a Canadian newspaper, there likely to cover the ladies and pairs competition. She smiled at Victor in a way that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up in warning. "First, congratulations on your gold, Victor. I'd just like to quickly change gears if I can; I'm not sure how widely spread around the Russian media this might be, but here in North America sources at both the USFS and Skate Canada have alluded to several judging discrepancies taking place last year…"

Her voice started to fade out a little; Victor heard Phichit's quick intake of breath next to him and saw all the colour drain out of Yuuri's face. He knew why he was being asked this question now; in a few weeks the entire Russian sporting community as a whole would be under scrutiny as the IOC conducted hearings on their eligibility for PyeongChang. There were no other Russians competing at this event, no one from the federation was here, and Victor knew how it looked – Yuuri wearing his coaching badge and Yakov so damningly absent. It had been remarkably freeing, to be alone with Yuuri at Skate America  –  the opposite intention, no doubt, from his punishment of having to compete without his coach – but the long fingers of his federation still followed Victor wherever he went. He folded his hands on the table and stared at his lap, mentally preparing himself to have to deny what he knew, to have to lie in front of Yuuri.

"… As a competitor and a coach, how are you handling the alleged match-fixing of the Russian Federation?"

The room erupted into noise, shouted questions from reporters, the ISU representative desperately trying to get control of the room back, and the flickering sound of too many flash photos being taken at once. Victor looked up from his lap and met Yuuri's terrified gaze, watched as Celestino put a hand on Yuuri's knee and murmured something to him that was lost over the deafening shout of the ISU representative into her microphone.

"There is absolutely _no_ grounds for any such allegation," she thundered. "The ISU upholds all participating federations to the principles of fair sport, and any suggestion otherwise is simply _not true_!"

Victor waited for that lie to sink in, for the room to come back to silence. He continued to stare at Yuuri, watching the look in his eyes change from outright fear to something hesitant and worried.

_You are an investment on which we expect returns…_

_All I can control is my own performance. I'm proud of the way I skated…_

_You need to ask yourself, what exactly it is that Yuuri-kun is protecting you from…_

"Next question, please," the ISU rep said, voice still shaking.

Victor pressed his lips together, and then, Yuuri's eyes steeled, they glinted with that hidden, exhilarating fire that Victor so loved, and Yuuri lifted his ring to his lips and kissed it.

_And if they ask me about my partner, about the man I'm going to marry, how do you want me to answer?_

Victor leaned into his microphone, his hair falling into his face and obstructing his eye. "Coaching has been such a motivating and rewarding experience for me," he said, and the room turned so quiet Victor could have heard a pin drop at the back of it. "Not only has it brought someone very special into my life, it's also given me an entirely new perspective on the sport. I thought I knew everything about figure skating, but coaching has made every day on the ice new and surprising. Not all of the surprises have been pleasant!" Victor trilled, and the room twittered with laughter. He gave the reporters his best smile.

"Coaching is hard work, but that's what ultimately makes it so fulfilling. There are so many challenges that are new to me. As a coach, I've had to watch my fiancé overcome obstacles that simply haven't existed for me in this sport. And, every day, he gets up and he refuses to let it stop him. He tries again. He keeps going, he works harder, he shatters expectations." Victor shook his hair back and looked at Yuuri, whose eyes were sparkling behind his glasses as he valiantly tried not to cry, and Victor smiled at him, a little choked up himself. "And he does it quietly, with such grace and compassion, and never complains. It's inspiring, you know? It's… I'm sorry, I'm just so, so proud of him."

"You are referring, here, to Katsuki Yuuri, of Japan?" the reporter pressed, and Victor's smile could have cut diamonds.

"Of course I am. I don't recall being engaged to anyone else."

 

Victor had three voicemails from the federation on his phone by the time the press conference was over, and he deleted all three without listening to them. He cleared the missed calls from Yakov too, but he left the text message from Yuri, still recuperating in Moscow.

_you should have called them out asshole_

It was true, and Victor felt cowardly, undeserving of the way Yuuri vaulted into his arms and held him in the hallway outside of the press conference. "Thank you," Yuuri whispered tearfully, "You didn't... you didn't have to say all that. Victor, I–" Victor shook his head against Yuuri's shoulder. He didn't trust himself at all to speak. Yuuri rubbed circles into his back and only drew away from him when they heard Ben calling for them from around the corner.

"We're over here," Yuuri answered, wiping at his eyes under his glasses before he reached up to do the same to Victor's cheeks. Victor hadn't even noticed he'd been crying.

"Hey," Ben said gently, and he smiled at Yuuri, but didn't try to touch him. "Sorry to interrupt Yuu-yu, but my boss wants me to make sure you're okay with the set-up for your performance in the Gala tomorrow."

Victor's ears started to ring. He knew they were just after a duet skate, and Victor didn't want to give it to them. Whatever had happened here at Skate America felt intimate and private, not something to be shared. Victor was still dealing with the aftermath of the email Anna had sent to him, extolling the opportunity Yuuri was passing up by turning down the latest sponsorship offer from Kit Kat, born out of Yuuri becoming an overnight meme in Osaka. She'd begged Victor to get Yuuri to reconsider, and he'd refused. _Our relationship is not a commodity_ , a statement that had shaken the professional partnership he'd maintained with his agent for all the years they'd worked together. Victor had never been in the habit of saying no, but then, he'd never had someone to protect before.

"He's not going to be a publicity stunt for you," Victor said, but Yuuri put a hand on his chest, so gentle and hesitant, like he maybe wasn't allowed. Victor gripped Yuuri's fingers, pressing them more firmly against his own heart.

"It's – it's fine, I offered," Yuuri explained. To Ben he said, "I have something new planned… I'll need to talk to the lighting people."

* * *

Yuri watched the Skate America Gala live, his laptop hooked up to his grandfather's new television, purchased by Yuri for him with some of the winnings from Worlds. He was only tuning in because he wanted to watch Otabek, and he supposed Phichit too, and he joined the live feed for the start, since Americans had funny ideas about the order in which medalists ought to be in the gala, and couldn't be trusted not to send the skaters out at random. Skate America liked to keep the audience on its toes, and Yuri was just as surprised as the crowd when the first skater was announced.

_Please welcome, as our special guest, Four Continents and National Champion, from Japan, Yuuri Katsuki!_

Yuri fiddled absently with the blue hair tie and black leather cord on his wrist as Yuuri waved to the crowd, lapping the rink once in a pair of dark skinny jeans and a white dress shirt, and settling into a starting position that was different from his exhibition skate for this year: a competition-level, jump riddled performance set to a mash-up of Sia songs. Yuri sat up a little straighter, as much as his propped up ankle would allow. Katsudon was going to skate something new, and the last time Yuuri had spoken to him it had been in a locked bathroom in Osaka, his big dark eyes holding absolutely no ulterior motive as he dusted Yuri's face with glitter and asked _Who are you dancing for?_ And Yuri, pitiful and woe begotten, distracted by the soft bristles and Yuuri's warm breath on his face, unable to think straight through a haze of pain and anti-inflammatory drugs, had told him the truth.

Yuuri had hummed low in his throat, and it had been later, as his fingers threaded carefully through Yuri's hair to braid it, that he'd said quietly, _Do you think that's the first time I've been underscored?_

The music that started was a soft harp and gentle beat, and Yuri thought he didn't know it, until one of Yuuri's other dance practice mainstays made her voice known. On top of his eclectic preferences for soft electronica, J-Pop, strange alternative rock, and filthy gangster rap, Katsudon was fond of a woman with a big voice.

_When the night has come, and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see_ , sang Florence Welch, as Yuuri floated across the darkened ice in a pale white spotlight, more graceful than any swan Yuri could hope to achieve. People sometimes forgot, because of his foot-twisting choreography, that Yuuri had been a ballet dancer before he'd started skating, that his programs as a record-setting Junior had been rooted in a Classical style that was more fundamentally Russian than any other. Every frame Yuuri made on the ice was perfect, delicate, tentative. He was searching, the ice, the stadium, for something from within himself, and he moved across the ice in what Yuri recognized as the long dragging set-up for a lutz.

_So darling, darling, stand_ – the rest of Florence's plea was drowned out by applause as Yuuri landed a _quad_. Yuri gaped at the screen and Yuuri used his momentum to curl himself in towards the centre of the ice for an upright attitude spin, before working across the ice in a choreographic sequence, his body dipping and raising, twisting in time with the song. He wasn't searching anymore, his hands pressing frequently to his heart, his shoulders firm, declaring that he could be brave. _No, I won't be afraid, and darling, darling stand, by me, ohhhh_ , sang Florence, as Yuuri did a quad loop-triple loop combo, pulling himself up, spinning his body through traditional ice dance steps as though an invisible partner stood with him on the ice. The music slowed, softened, and Yuuri opened his arms up over his head, sinking into a beautiful lunge and then pushing off, folding himself almost double into an Ina Bauer that he held for a criminal amount of time – Yuri's core muscles hurt just watching it. As the spotlight came to center ice, it slowly closed, and Yuuri disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the melody floating into the arena. Yuri held his breath.

_Darling, darling, stand_ , boomed Florence, and the spotlight caught Yuuri just as he took off on his back inside edge, his toe pick scraping into the ice for a quad flip that had height and distance, time, and Yuri knew a second jump was coming, but his jaw nearly hit the floor when it was a quad toe. It was sheer stamina; Yuuri did a camel spin and then slid out into a spread eagle, one arm curling above his head. _Whenever you're in trouble, won't you stand_ , and Yuri had caught the timing now, that Yuuri took off so every landing was on the word "me", his quad sal effortless. Yuuri fell into the music then, the way only he could, with a step sequence that would have had most other skaters in their division tripping over themselves. He was radiant now, he _knew_ he was strong, and he was promising that he could be relied upon to protect the people he cared about too. _Darling, darling, stand by me, stand by me, whenever you're in trouble won't you stand by me_ …

Yuri had his hand clamped around his wrist, his eyes burning in an effort to keep himself together. _Who are you dancing for?_ He knew Yuuri's answer, but also thought, hoped, maybe it might also be for him too. The program ended with a combination spin before Yuuri turned out, one hand on his chest and the other elongated, palm upwards in invitation, exactly like his free skate at Worlds. The audience lost their literal minds; Yuuri bowed several times to each corner of the arena, waving and smiling as chants of _Victuuri_ followed him off the ice. The camera cut away as Yuuri reached the boards, but not fast enough to avoid catching the arms that went immediately around him, bearing the familiar red and white pattern of a Russian Sochi Olympic jacket. Yuri covered his eyes with his hand.

"Yurotchka," Dedushka said, his deep voice rumbling in concern, "is everything all right?"

"Deda," he sobbed, as his grandfather put one warm, meaty hand on his back. "Deda, there's something I have to tell you, about last season."

* * *

Yuuri was tempted to suggest they not go to the banquet. He was so fidgety with his discomfort around Victor's vacant mood while he tried to get ready that contacts were impossible; he wore his Kuboraum glasses and had to forgo wearing a tie. That at least had pleased Victor – they were both wearing dark navy wool suits, and Victor chose a blush-pink dress shirt and a swirling paisley tie designed to subtly match the Burberry scarf Yuuri tucked into the neck of his thin black sweater. In the elevator down to the conference floor Victor took Yuuri's hand and gave him a highly plastic smile that was likely meant to be reassuring. The toe of Yuuri's loafer tapped impossibly quick on the floor as he rubbed his thumb in circles on the back of Victor's hand, and Yuuri didn't really let go of that jittery nervous energy until they were seated at their dinner table and he looked around to find it occupied by Ben, Emma, Phichit, Otabek, James and Paul.

"What are you doing here?" he laughed in relief. James wiggled his eyebrows and leaned in conspiratorially.

"Baby, I know people. Who know people. Also, a Benjamin Franklin is an extremely powerful motivator."

"I thought only rappers carried hundred-dollar American bills," Yuuri said, squinting, and James bopped him on the nose.

"Call me Eight Mile. Is that a BURBERRY?!"

"I bought it for him," Victor announced proudly, smile gone heart-shaped, and Paul groaned. James turned to him so fast he must have caught whiplash, but Paul was already shaking his head.

"Honey, I drive an ambulance-"

"Look what you've started," Yuuri whispered fondly, giving Victor's thigh a squeeze right above his knee. Victor trailed one finger along the silk at the side of Yuuri's neck.

"I regret nothing," he smiled.

Dinner was good, full of jokes and unforced conversation. Between Phichit and Emma, Otabek slowly came out of his shell, by the time the plates were cleared he was having an animated discussion with Paul about basketball. After dinner was even better; James slid the bartender another crisp bill to unlock the top shelf liquor, and their table took charge of the dance floor. It was just what Yuuri liked: his friends in a little circle around him moving to the music and Victor _laughing_ , no officials or federation representatives or reporters to mar his evening. Yuuri hoisted Emma up into ridiculous lifts, led Phichit around in a flamboyantly ridiculous tango to Despacito that James filmed for Phichit's Snapstory, and won a dance-off with Paul by vaulting over him, leapfrog style, as Usher shouted "Yeah!" in the background. Emma somehow charmed the DJ into letting Otabek give him a break – solely due to her noticing the DJ being cute, and Ben making eyes at him all evening. Ben and his new date were currently dancing a little more scandalously than was appropriate at a figure skating banquet, but Yuuri had drunk two shots of tequila prior to this song, and found he didn't quite care. He was leading James in a simple waltz, the first dance he'd ever taught his first ever boyfriend, and he was feeling nostalgic and sweet.

"This kid's pretty good," James said. "He's from Kazakhstan?!"

"Mm. The world's a big place, you need to get out more, Carol," Yuuri teased.

"Yuu-yu!" James gasped. "Jesus, I forgot how ruthless you are when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk." It was true; it was going to take more than two shots to get Yuuri there, but perhaps not more than three. "Are you glad you came?"

"I'm always glad to see you, you know that." James' smile was fond, and his fingers stroked Yuuri's shoulder. "But I'm especially glad this time – I was worried about you."

Yuuri wasn't quite sure how to answer that, so he continued to lead James carefully around the floor, a tempo that did not match the beat of the music but was easier for James to follow. It took them in a semi-circle, and as they danced past, Victor looked up from the conversation he was having with Celestino at the bar across the room to briefly meet Yuuri's gaze. He didn't smile, and his shoulders didn't loosen, and Yuuri's teeth sank into his bottom lip. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the emotional rollercoaster of the weekend, or maybe it was all the things Yuuri had been carrying since his decision in March, suddenly piled up inside him and pressing his tongue against his teeth. Yuuri felt his eyebrows pull down.

"I'm worried about Victor," he said quietly.

James' hand tightened in his. "I know you are, honey."

"I'm supposed to…" Yuuri didn’t have the words in English, so he translated as closely as he could. "His happiness is my responsibility, and-"

"No one's happy all the time," James laughed. "Paul and I had a disagreement about designer accessories three hours ago."

Yuuri's smile was wry. "That was a disagreement?"

"Okay, don't tell him this, but no, it wasn't." James sighed and his arm tightened, pulling Yuuri in a little bit closer. "Do you want some husband advice?" He didn't wait for Yuuri answer, but put his arms around Yuuri's neck, and Yuuri instinctively let his now free hand join his other one on James' waist. James pressed his lips together, blotting his lip balm while he thought.

"Paul's job is really hard, you know?" he said, and Yuuri nodded. "Most days, he stress bakes a pie, and he's my husband again and it's fine. I bring it into work and my co-workers love it. But there are times… I'll come home, and Paul is just sitting in the bottom of the shower, looking at nothing, numb. And it’s so _hard_ , Yuu-yu. It kills me to see him like that. I can't fix it, I can't make his job easier, I can't make people stop stabbing each other, or stop old ladies from passing away in his arms. I can't make that right. But I can hold him, so I do; I turn off the shower and I dry him off and I lie with him in our bed until he falls asleep. That's the husband job, but nobody tells you about it. It's just loving your partner, until things don't feel so shitty."

"I'm trying," Yuuri whispered, the back of his throat going tight. "But I think I might have done it wrong."

"Not possible," James smiled. "Loving someone is easy. It's all the other stuff that's hard. Just don't keep it in here." He tapped Yuuri's forehead. "You're so good at pretending you're okay, better than he is. Don't do that. Don't struggle alone."

"Okay," Yuuri frowned.

"I'm serious honey. Before you do something drastic, talk to someone. Call me, if you have to. No matter what time it is."

Yuuri squeezed James' waist, took the quarter step in that made their waltz a hug. "Okay," he promised again. "Thank you."

A slower beat was shifting in and out of the song, transitioning it into something romantic, and Yuuri felt James smile against his shoulder. "Do you want to hear a good thing?" James whispered into his ear.

"Yes, please."

James laughed, he took a step back and winked. Yuuri quirked an eyebrow at him in surprise, and then a hand was on the small of Yuuri's back, and the familiar smell of cologne and expensive hair mousse floated over his senses. Yuuri turned a little, into Victor's hand, and was met with a soft, beautiful smile, glowing blue eyes.

"Hello there," Victor breathed.

"Ah, hi," Yuuri smiled, ears going hot as he wrapped his arm around Victor's neck. Victor was carrying two sweating bottles of beer between his fingers, and James took them out of Victor's grasp with a grin as he walked off the dance floor. Loosed of its burden, Victor's free hand found Yuuri's and their posture was perfect, form and frame in elegant harmony. Yuuri's feet had already started to follow Victor's lead as he said "Looking for a dance partner?"

"Always!"

"Mm, well..." Yuuri felt his face catch fire, but he was full of liquid courage, brave and in love. "That's good. Because… because I'm very interested in dancing with you forever."

"What a coincidence," Victor smiled, his nose and cheeks flushing, arm strong around Yuuri's waist. "So am I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These kids are going to be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> I made a thing! And it's unedited, so apologies for errors.


End file.
